


You’re Pretty Oblivious Sometimes, Mark

by fairdeath



Category: Youtube RPF, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Worship, Christmas Fluff, Christmas With Family, Christmas with Friends, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, New Year's Eve, New Year's Fluff, New Year's Kiss, Picnics, Pining, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 32,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5500949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairdeath/pseuds/fairdeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark’s barely a fully grown man, and yet his mother waits on bated breath for him to bring home someone. She begs him, poking and prodding to find out if there’s a special someone in his life yet, if she needs to add an extra plate for dinner on Christmas.</p><p>All he has to do is hold hands with Jack and fake his way through the cliché questions and he’s home free. The next time his mom asks about Jack, he’ll say they went their separate ways.</p><p>Easier said than done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Easier Done than Said.

Mark’s barely a fully grown man, and yet his mother waits on bated breath for him to bring home someone. She begs him, poking and prodding to find out if there’s a special someone in his life yet, if she needs to tell Di to add an extra plate for dinner on Christmas.

“Mom,” Mark sighs, eyes rolling for what feels like the umpteenth time since thanksgiving passed, “ _Mom_ ,” he presses, her pleas of her son to find the one, to bring them home, that if he isn’t giving her grandchildren soon, to at least give her a daughter in law. Or son. She isn’t picky, and neither is Di.

“I’m telling you, Mom, I’m not bringing anyone home with me,” he breathes, exhaustion of the conversation evident in his voice.

“Are you sure?” she asks Mark, her voice begging for Mark’s _Oh, Mom, you got me! I’ve been in a serious relationship this entire time!_ “What about that Jack boy?”  

“Fine, y’know what, Mom? Yes. I’m with Jack. Is that what you wanted to hear?” he answers sarcastically, cheeks reddened in both anger and embarrassment, the repetition of the same conversation occurring every week finally cracking his reserves. He hears her clap.

“Yes, it is!” She cheers, high pitched voice elevated in excitement. “I’m calling Di about this right now, telling her to set an extra plate at dinner for Christmas and _you_ ,” the order in her voice is evident with just the single address, “are bringing that boy with you over the break.”

“Wait, Mom, I-!” Mark’s voice raises, and is punctuated by the sound of his mother disconnecting the call. Fuck. There’s no arguing with his mom. If it were Di, sure, maybe, but there’s no chance of changing his mom’s decision. By this point, she’s probably already told the relatives about Mark’s handsome Irish partner with the charming smile.

Mark is disgusted with himself – how dare he put himself in this position? He either tells his mom that he was joking, and face the consequences of lying to his mom, or he-

He fakes being in a relationship long enough to get his mom off his back.

It’s quite brilliant, really. All he has to do is hold hands with Jack and fake his way through the cliché questions and he’s home free. The next time his mom asks about Jack, he’ll say they went their separate ways.

Now all he has to do is tell Jack that he’s accompanying him home to Cincinnati instead of spending Christmas alone in their cramped apartment, and all he has to do in return for not spending the holidays alone is hold Mark’s hand, maybe fake some stories every now and then.

Easier said than done.

 

It’s December 19 before he brings it up with Jack. They have to leave tomorrow night, and their flights are booked and paid for – “Christmas isn’t Christmas without your loved ones,” Di had said in the email, tickets attached in a PDF with his and Jack’s names written on them in black and white.

 “So, I know you’re spending Christmas here,” Mark begins over dinner. They’re mindlessly playing through a first person shooter Mark should be able to identify, but nerves of bringing up the topic cause tunnel vision, with an image of holding hands with Jack and his mom’s blindly bright and proud smile at the end. His chicken curry sits steaming on the coffee table, and his eyes trail the water as it dances in the light of the television.

Jack scoffs, eyes unmoving from the screen. “Thanks for the reminder,” he speaks, and Mark can almost see the sarcasm dripping from his cherry red lips, stained from constant biting. It’s a habit Mark quickly learned was Jack’s subconscious one, but since meeting Jack, Mark himself has begun to gnaw on his lips. He’s spent more money on chapstick in the last six months than he has in his whole life.

“Well, my mom invited you to spend the break with us,” Mark begins, voice low, and he’s trying to break it to Jack without having him break something in shock or anger in return.

Jack smiles, the corners of his lips curling and teeth exposed. A genuine grin, and they’re abundant, but something about this is different.

“Yeah?” Jack asks, voice quieter than usual. It shocks Mark, and it hurts him to keep going.

“Y-yeah,” he replies, uneasiness evident in his tone, “see, the thing is-“

“I knew there was a ‘but’,” Jack interrupts, “There’s always a ‘but’.” But his voice doesn’t ring through hurt, only patience as he waits for Mark to bring through the price of Christmas with people who love you. His mom has always been a sucker for accents.

“Normally I would say something witty, but, ah-“ Mark explains, words catching in his throat.

“Spit it out, Mark,” Jack presses, eyes full of wonder and Christmas joy. He’s gone from having plans of drinking and eating takeout on Christmas to being a tourist in his best friend’s home town, surrounded by Mark’s loved ones, home cooked meals, and Christmas joy. That doesn’t come in Chinese takeout.

“I kind of, sort of told my mom that we’re dating as a joke but she took me seriously and I need her off my back about finding a serious partner so I figure we go along with it and then she’ll back off so I kind of need you to pretend to be in love with me – but only for two weeks! – and then after that we’ll go back to being best friends and roommates and in return you’ll get to spend Christmas with a group of people who will love you and you get a home cooked meal instead of greasy takeout?” Mark exhales in one breath, and it’s definitely a question – this is the make or break for Jack coming to Cincinnati with him.

Jack shrugs, unfazed. “That makes sense,” is all he has to say on the matter, apparently. “When do we leave?”

It takes Mark a moment to catch up. Jack accepted the situation so easily that he’s confused. Is he dreaming? There’s no way Jack should have accepted this crazy situation. He blinks, eyelashes fluttering as he clears his mind like a fog over his lenses. His tongue fumbles before he can force out a response.

“Tomorrow! My step-mom already booked the tickets and paid for them for us. She said that Christmas isn’t right without the people you care about, or something? But we leave tomorrow! And we’ll fly back just after New Year’s,” he blathers, mouth refusing to _close_ and _shut the fuck up_.

“In that case, I’m going to pack and sleep. Beauty doesn’t come naturally to _some_ of us,” Jack teases, and Mark can’t help the blood painting his cheeks red in embarrassment. He drops the controller in Mark’s lap, whose hands are frozen, as his face is.  As Jack walks to his room, he stops abruptly, hand resting on the chair by his hip.

“By the way, Mark?” Jack speaks, voice low and smile evident in his voice, “Pretending to be your boyfriend means for two weeks, I get to hear all your embarrassing stories.”

Mark’s groan is accompanied by Jack’s full bodied laughter as he walks into his room.

 

Jack has earphones buried in his ears, a beanie with a ridiculous pompom atop of it, and a single lock of hair flicking upward against the rest of his hair. Mark’s attention is locked onto his face – the curve of his lips, the sharp point of his jaw, obstructed by facial hair, the endlessly long eyelashes that rest against his rosy cheeks. Mark’s never truly taken Jack’s beauty in. He’s tried to pretend that Jack isn’t attractive, isn’t the embodiment of the perfect partner. Thank God Jack’s blocked out the world for their flight, or else Mark would be mortified for being caught staring at him.

But he’s just working up the courage to start talking about how their fake relationship needs to work, he swears.

The flight attendants go through the safety instructions, where oxygen masks will fall from, where the vests are under the seats, how to put them on. Mark’s heard it one hundred times over, and he’s memorized it by now. He sees their gestures through his peripherals, and as soon as they’re done, Mark’s hand reaches to Jack’s thigh and taps against the denim there.

He pretends to not have been staring when Jack’s eyes flutter open and he focuses on Mark’s own.

“What’s up?” Jack asks, voice quiet in the claustrophobic space of economy. Mark swallows against the lump in his throat.

“W-we, uh, haven’t really talked about how this is going to work,” Mark starts. In reply, Jack nods. Mark hadn’t planned where to go from here, and as he fumbles over his tongue, the nerves in his hand lights up, and upon looking down, he sees Jack’s fingers tracing over the soft skin of his palm.

“No better time than the present to practice,” Jack speaks, voice even enough it sounds like he’s talking about the weather. Like holding Mark’s hand is as mundane an activity as grocery shopping or laundry.

Jack intertwines his fingers with Mark’s and rests their hands against Mark’s thigh. Mark wishes he didn’t flush so easily. His cheeks are hot and he can feel the nervous sweaty palms coming and that’s disgusting and it’s going to be gross for Jack and they’ve got to do this for two weeks straight and-

“Aw, you’re so cute when you’re blushing, Mark” Jack speaks, breaking Mark from his mind, going as fast as the plane is about to be. Jack’s already so in tune with what their fake relationship is like, and how it goes, and how much public affection is appropriate, and yet Mark’s mind is stuck at their front door from when their Uber arrived.

He wishes he had a response, but instead he sinks into his seat a little further.

“Tell me the story of how we got together, Jack,” he decides on. It’s safe – they need to practice their response before it’s necessary. If they mess this up, it ruins the entire foundation of their fake relationship. Jack rearranges himself in his seat, tucks his left foot under his right thigh, leans against the wall of the cabin, window playing through their take off.

“I took you out for dinner – pizza, obviously – and you thought we were just going for dinner until I kissed you,” Jack states, not hesitating whatsoever. Mark’s gobsmacked, but not for the reason he feels he should be.

“Why do I have to be the oblivious one?” Mark asks, annoyance and shock bleeding together. It’s not like he’d miss _being asked on a date_.

“You’re pretty oblivious sometimes, Mark,” Jack deadpans. Mark would be offended if it weren’t the truth. There’s been many a time he’s been hit on by both girl and guys and not noticed, just thought they were being polite.

“Fine,” Mark decides on, “you’re lucky I love you, honey bun.”

Jack scoffs, “bullshit,” he retorts, “the only pet names you’ve ever used in your life are variations of ‘baby’.” He’s got him there. His chest fills with a dull ache – does Jack really pay that much attention to him? He’s had a couple of short relationships in the time they’ve been roommates, but he didn’t think they were real enough to leave any impression on Jack.

He sinks a little further into his seat.

“Well, how long have we been together, _babe_?” Mark emphasizes the pet name. He should be flattered that his best friend knows who he is, even if he doesn’t – it’s a sign of closeness, after all, but it’s just making him upset with himself.

“Mm,” Jack begins, and he looks up in thought. He grins when he decides on an answer, like he’s won the daily double $1000 question in Jeopardy. “7 months,” he speaks, voice even and decided, “long enough that it makes sense we’d spend Christmas together, but short enough that you’re only telling the family about it now.”

Mark is in a perpetual state of shock. How can Jack be so okay with this? Why is this so easy for him? He nods in agreeance, though. It makes sense, even if Jack seems too okay with this entire situation.

 

 

Mark knows why Jack seemed so okay with it all before. It’s so clear after they’ve landed. It hadn’t sunk in that Jack would be meeting Mark’s _entire family_ as the _boyfriend_ until now. He was fine on the plane, held Mark’s hand the entire flight, only letting go to let Mark pay for their drinks and stir his coffee, and didn’t bat an eyelash.

Now that they’re on Cincinnati ground, Mark’s home a half hour Uber away, Jack is shaking and more skittish than Mark has seen him since their orientation to college two years ago.

“Hey, it’ll be fine,” Mark promises Jack, who looks more like a guinea pig in front of a snake than a fully grown human about to meet another human. He speaks quietly and slowly, like a woman would to a lost child in a mall. “Mom already loves you – she always asks about you, so you’ve won over the hardest of all of them,” he swears, and it isn’t a lie. His mother’s intuition is insanely good and very rarely wrong, and the moment she’d heard Jack’s laughter, she’d fallen in love, told Mark to handcuff himself to the boy. Jack’s eyes, previously flittering across the crowded baggage claims area, now lock onto Mark. To further drill his point home, Mark finds Jack’s hand, intertwining their fingers. Jack’s head zips to stare at their fingers, Mark’s thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand.

“I just want them t’ like me, is all. As your fake boyfriend or not,” he murmurs. Mark doesn’t know if it fills his heart with joy or breaks it entirely.


	2. Boy, It's Good To Be Home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, mom told me you’re a thing now,” Thomas begins, “how did you get together, boys?” he asks from across the table, knowing smirk written across his jaw.

Even if Mark hadn’t have drilled it in to Jack that his mom loves him already, his mom definitely would have just fine without his help.  When they tug their suitcases from their Uber driver’s car, Mark’s mom is already rushing down the driveway, flour in her hair. She squeaks in excitement as she bobs in place, waiting for Mark to finish paying their driver and Jack to finish removing their bags.

“I missed you so much!” she speaks, voice high with joy and arms coming to wrap around her son before he has a chance to put his wallet away.

“I missed you, too, mom,” he murmurs, arms wrapping around her small frame, hands rubbing against her spine. He doesn’t even get a chance to kiss her cheek before she’s pulling away, arms outstretched as she reaches for Jack.

“Jack!” she yells, voice loud in comparison to her words directed at her son, “I’m so happy you’re here.”

Mark can see the tension drain from his shoulders as he relaxes into the hug, arms wrapped around the small frame of Mark’s mother, flour catching on Jack’s face. His face had gone from full of terror and anxiety to comfort in a matter of a single moment, and Mark has never been so relieved, and so full of love for his mother than in the moment following it. Jack had been the one freaking out about meeting his family, and yet Mark is the one sighing with relief, even as Lucy barks and howls to know what the commotion is about.

Boy, it’s good to be home.

 

It’s almost uncomfortably warm in the home as they settle their bags against the wall in Mark’s old room. The fire is blazing and the stove is bleeding the aroma of tomatoes and beef boiling for his Mom’s Bolognese. Mark untangles the scarf from his neck, tripping around Lucy and Maggie as they beg for attention from the Jack.

“She sure does love you,” Mark speaks, grin evident as he squats down to adorn the ball of hair in a loving embrace.

“And your mom didn't seem to think I'm half bad, either,” and the cheeky smile that fits itself on Jack's face is nothing short of awe-inspiring. Mark’s torso shakes with laughter, full bodied and the kind that makes him feel alive.

“You’re such a dumb ass,” Mark speaks through the laughter, Jack’s own accompanying his.

“Yeah, well,” Jack murmurs, “I’m your dumb ass now,” and his grin is so bright it could beat all the Christmas lights in their suburb. Mark wishes he could groan in response, but he’s cut off mid-breath by his mom leaning in the door frame.

“Thomas is here! Dinner is almost ready!” She squeaks out, the sound of distant laughter and clinking cutlery backing her claims up.

The latter fills Mark with joy, the other with anxiety and nerves. Upholding a fake relationship seemed hard before, but around his brother, his best friend apart from Jack himself, that’s another game entirely.

 

Dinner is delicious, as it always is. Mark tells his mom that, and Jack backs up the claims, despite never having been in the same state as Mark’s mom until today. She bashfully laughs and thanks them both, smiling and reminiscing about the time a smaller Mark drew on the walls with Bolognese. Thomas laughs, Mark, embarrassed for a version of himself he can’t remember, flushes and breathes a laugh as he pushes his remaining pasta around with his fork.

“Embarrassing story number one, huh?” Jack asks him, grin showing his adoration for the situation, “Didn’t I tell you this would be my favourite part of the trip?”

Mark groans, “You did,” he assures Jack, and his brilliant comeback is pulled from his mouth when he feels Jack’s hand grasp his, head falling to Mark’s shoulder as he laughs quietly. His heart catches in his throat, and Mark thought the happiest sounds consisted of Bob’s gasp when he saw Mandy walk down the aisle and the like, but he’s considering Jack’s laughter to take number one.

The thought shocks him, and if it weren’t for the façade he’d have torn his hand from Jack’s and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.

Fake relationship to get everyone off his back about being in a real relationship. That’s why they’re here. At Mark’s childhood home. With Jack. Holding hands. Mark’s sweaty hand tangled with Jack’s uncharacteristically soft one. Mark’s head hurts.

It’s gonna be a long break.

“So, mom told me you’re a thing now,” Thomas begins, “how did you get together, boys?” he asks from across the table, knowing smirk written across his jaw. Mark gets cottonmouth. His tongue trips over his teeth. His vocal chords are out of tune and detached.

“I took Mark out,” Jack speaks easily, eyeing Mark out of his peripheral vision warily. “I asked him t’ dinner, he came wit’ me, talking about how annoyed at one of his professors he was, as relaxed as if we’d ordered in pizza,” Jack continues flawlessly, turning his head to Mark. Mark sees the smile on Jack’s face – adoration, love. He’s a better actor than Mark’d given him credit for. Mark takes his cue when he sees Jack swallow and continues on, hoping his face doesn’t show the nausea that’s suddenly hit him. He looks to Jack, eyes meeting.

“That’s because I didn’t know it was a date until you kissed me when I was half way through my rant about that bullshit assignment,” he speaks, voice dripping with affection he prays doesn’t sound as forced as it tastes.

Jack follows effortlessly, laughter bubbling through his smile, small and private as though reliving their fake first date is his fake favourite story.

“Shut you up, didn’t it?” Jack retorts, full faced grin overtaking his private smile. Mark nods in agreeance, and he owes past Mark one for planning this out on the plane.

Jack’s grin returns to the small smile it was before, his hand uncaptured by Mark’s hand lifting from his thigh, coming to Mark’s face. Subconsciously, as Jack’s hand cups Mark’s face, he leans into the heat source. This is good. This is safe.

But Jack is leaning towards Mark, and there starts to become two Jack’s with two sets of ocean blue eyes, curtained by lashes so long that even _Mark_ is jealous, mint hair from the first Jack overlapping with the second Jack’s nose, which is just above the red and pouted lips so close to Mark’s-

Jack kisses him.

They didn’t rehearse this. This wasn’t planned. This isn’t safe. This is wildly uncharted territory and Mark doesn’t know what to do. He squeezes the hand that is within his grip, a silent expression of his shock, but it could also convey to outside viewers that Mark is simply fond of this territory.

Just as Mark’s reflexes kick in and he’s returning the kiss, albeit chaste, Jack is retreating.

His heart lurches, and cheeks go hot. He prays to wake up from this dream – they didn’t rehearse this. He doesn’t know what to do now. They _didn’t rehearse this_.

"Still works," Mark's mom comments, and he can feel their eyes watching the flush rise up his neck and bleed into his cheeks.

“God, if only I could find a way to shut him up like that,” Mark distantly hears Thomas laugh, sound echoing out of his wine glass.

“Yeah, please don’t try kissing me,” Mark retorts, and it’s almost too easy to slip back into his normal routine with the witty banter, so much so that he doesn’t notice the way he’s biting his lip over and over where Jack’s first touched until the faint burn of worn-dry skin tells him to stop.

 

It’s times like these Mark is glad he can’t drink. Before the doctor’s orders, he’d drink up to three beers with dinner, and he’s thankful that amount of depressant isn’t lingering in his veins as they sit in the living room, Christmas movies running in the background to fill the silence between conversation and dog singing. Mark’s mom had ushered them out of the kitchen, saying they didn’t fly all this way to wash dishes, that’s why Thomas still lives close. They sat on the couch, Jack wedged against the armrest, looking relieved to be away from the forefront of war.

This, of course, results in Lucy feigning her lap-dog status on Mark’s dark jeans, her startling white fur lacing the denim, while Jack’s left hand combs fingers through Mark’s locks absent-mindedly, arm resting atop the back of the cushions.

He’d have been worried about the soldiers poking fun due to the domesticity of it all if it weren’t so relaxing.

 

The sedation of Jack's actions wear off immediately once they begin to head to Mark’s room for the night, long after the food and banter ends.

“I’ll, uh,” it’s hard to form words around the bone-deep exhaustion Mark feels, “I’ll pull out the trundle, make it for you-“

“What?” Jack asks, confused. “Why would you do t’at?”

Mark returns the feeling.  “Why wouldn’t I? Did you want the bed?” he asks, confusion a warm blanket on a cold night – much like tonight, really.

Jack shakes his head, hair knocking at his ears.

“If your mom walks in, she’ll be confused as t’ why we’re sleepin’ in different beds,” he clarifies, walking Mark through the steps to assure he isn’t as confused as he evidently looks.

“You’re okay with that?” Mark asks. This question isn’t about the bed thing. It’s about everything. It’s all a lot more real once you’ve met the family you’re fake working towards making in-laws.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Now hurry up and get in t’ bed,” Jack retorts, tugging his shirt and pants off. They both sleep naked, but for their trip, it’s a very clearly lined fortnight of sleeping in boxers.

It’s 10:56pm and Mark is exhausted from keeping up with their real platonic/fake romantic relationship.

As he’s curled up, bare, cold back to the centre of the bed where the two halves of their platonic bed sharing meet, he feels Jack tug at Mark’s share of blankets.

“Nuh-uh, Sean,” Mark begins, “don’t you dare be a blanket thief when I’ve already given you so much.”

Jack feigns a gasp, tugging at the fabric regardless, “You must be truly serious, calling me Sean ‘nd all, but that’s too bad.” Jack tugs extra hard at the end of his sentence to punctuate it, and Mark can feel the pouting glare even through closed eyes. “You’re gonna have t’ not leave the pacific ocean between us if you don’t want me t’ hog ‘em,” Jack prompts, poking at Mark’s back. Grumpily, he shuffles back, and it’s evident as soon as Jack presses his body into the mattress that Mark’s core volume and direction comes from his ass. The curve beneath Jack’s own fits to Mark’s, and if he wasn’t so exhausted, Mark might’ve poked fun at the fact their asses fit together like a jig-saw puzzle.

They fall asleep like that, an algebraic x from bird’s eye, exhausted children any other.

 

When Mark comes to, it’s by the morning sunlight dancing through the air from between the gaps in the curtains, rays of warmth twirling through the air before tip-toeing across Mark’s nose. From the other gap, the sunshine breathes life into the cold room, stopping only once it makes contact with Mark’s hip, honey and bronze in comparison to Jack’s ivory arm, currently draped over said hip.

If Mark had though their backsides fit together humorously well last night, he’s gobsmacked this morning. Jack’s smaller frame is wrapped around Mark’s stockier one, arm wrapped around the space between Mark’s sharp hip and soft waist. Blankets too warm had been kicked to their hips during the night, duvet cover familiar and comfortable. Jack, petite Jack, has his head pressed to the space between Mark’s shoulder blades, shoulders shaking in the too cool air. Groggy from sleep, Mark lifts an arm to the forgotten blankets, tugging the plush fabric over his own hips, up to his chest, covering Jack’s shaking frame. He’s always been told he’s like a hot water bottle, but no one has actually used him as one until now.  

He nestles deeper into his pillow and succumbs to the waves of remaining fatigue before he can let himself overthink the situation.


	3. A Mess, but my mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pancakes + Presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Hi. I'm here. Sorry I'm late.

“C’mon, ya big hunk of meat,” flitters through the space in Mark’s ears, seemingly immediately after becoming aware of Jack’s small frame wrapped around his own. “’M not ready t’ face your family alone, and I want breakfast.” The space around him comes into his perception, pillow tugged close in place of a lover, sun shooting laser-like rays along the expanse of the soft skin of his stomach, warming him to the core, and along the haze of movement that makes up Jack.

“Mark,” comes the whine when Mark’s bleary eyes don’t focus on Jack’s annoyed ones, “come and help me make pancakes.”

“Hmm?” follows Jack, the unintelligent and confused mix of groan and intelligible language echoes. Mark’s senses, bar sight, are still stuck in the dreamland his mind conjured up where Jack is asleep, quiet, and most importantly, not pushing at Mark in an attempt to raise him from the heaven his subconscious had created where they’re both still sleeping.

“I want food, and I need your help,” Jack clarifies, “I don’t know where anything is, so I need you t’ tell me where t’ find the stuff.” He’s fighting a losing battle, that Jack kid. The downy feeling of the pillow cradled against the curve of Mark’s skull has taken the championship belt and left the arena already.

“I swear t’ God, I’ll tell your Ma ‘bout that Halloween party,” Jack threatens, hands taut against his hips.

It’s almost comical how close to a day-time drama the situation looks when Mark sits up. He jack-knives, narrowly avoiding throwing his forehead against Jack’s own, but their faces sit so close it is startling for both parties. There’s a shallow and unnerving silence that follows the action, ocean blue locked on pools of dark cocoa, breathing uneven as Mark’s mind floods with memories of the night previous.

“You’re great and all, Mark, but I’m not kissin’ you with that morning breath of yours,” Jack laughs, and the volume of his words are evidently meant to be overheard, though Mark can’t help but bring a cupped hand to hover his mouth worriedly as he hesitantly brings his legs out from the warm hug of the cosy duvet (and Jack).

He stands, facing the slightly ajar door, and brings his long arms, bare and radiating warmth from the memory of sleep, above his head. He clasps them together, tugging and pulling in an attempt to stretch the stiffness from his bones, back muscles tensing and relaxing from the movements, dragging under his sun kissed Californian skin.

“All right, pancakes. Let’s do it,” he speaks, voice deep and husky with sleep. He looks back to Jack, wondering why there’s a lack of rustling from him getting up, and sees Jack spacing out, eyes blank and locked on to a spot on Mark’s back. Mark’s face turns in confusion, and he brings up his right hand to wave in front of the spot Jack’s stuck on.

“C’mon, Jack,” Mark speaks slowly and persuading, “pancakes, remember? I didn’t get out of that warm bed for nothing,” while he retrieves some warmer clothes than just his boxers.

Jack’s hair shakes with the movement of his head, an echo of Mark’s influence as he’s pulled from his trance. “Yeah, let’s-” he swallows before he can finish his sentence, “let’s make pancakes.”

 

Mark remembers where everything is. The addition of newer, shinier cookware is slightly jarring, but he remembers where everything is, and that’s the important thing. He sits at the island of the kitchen, cupboards galore beneath the bench his elbows rest upon, Jack sifting through the ones Mark points in the general direction of, his eyes unfollowing while his finger points to each corner of the kitchen. It isn’t long before Jack is throwing amounts of sugar, eggs, milk, and vanilla in a bowl together. Mark cringes as Jack drops the flour into the bowl, dust flittering up from the bowl and covering Jack’s face like loose powder backstage in a drag show.

As the sheen of flour settles, Mark’s eyes open to see Jack smiling wider than he has since week one of college, before the impending doom of assessment rained upon them in a constant stream of stress.

Jack’s hair is sprinkled with dust at the tips that sit by his face, his cheeks are rolled in flour, his nose is red at the tip from the cold air, his eyes are nearly closed with the ferocity of his smile, cheeks pushed up and encompassing the space around his eyes like a warm hug.

“You’re a mess,” Mark breathes, smiling at the stupidity of Jack’s action.

“It’s flour,” Jack replies, “and it’s dry, so it’s fine,” before rubbing the backs of his hands across his cheeks and forehead.

“I meant you in general, but that too,” Mark doesn’t miss a beat.

 

Jack makes great pancakes. They’re fluffy and soft and light but they’re dense enough to hold the banana and caramel without turning into a goopy mess. They always are – Sunday morning pancakes are a good tradition, even if it does end up being every 3rd Sunday morning because of the study sessions that turn into drinks with friends, which turns into _too_ many drinks with friends.

But they aren’t _pretty_. Mark makes pretty pancakes. So when Jack flips an uneven toned pancake onto Mark’s plate, he sighs and tears it apart with his fingers.

“I know the firs’ one is always the crappy one, bu’ come on, dude,” Mark grumbles through a piece of pancake. Delicious. Still not pretty.

Jack holds a spatula in Mark’s direction, “I’m slaving over this hot stove for you, lovingly making my partner a delicious and hot breakfast on this cold morning, and you’re complaining because they don’t look nice?”

“Yeah, they don’t look _pretty_ ,” Mark confirms, another piece of pancake devoured, the piece remaining a modern art interpretation of a zebra. He stands, walking around the island, before coming to stand beside Jack at the stove.

“Maybe the reason yours are is because you are, jerk,” Jack retorts, and he sees the confusion in Mark’s shoulders before it settles on his face.

“Beauty has nothing to do with it. It’s pure talent and not being full of suckage like some people,” Mark teases, spooning more mixture into the pan with the ladle. He wipes at his cheek, and Jack watches him leave a perfect stripe of batter across the apple of his right cheek.

Mark stands by the pan, fingers wrapping around the spatula Jack had accused him with, lightly tugging at the plastic. Jack’s fingers drop from the spatula, rising towards Mark. Looking at the pan and humming a Christmas tune Jack can’t place, Jack’s hand cups Mark’s jaw, turning his now reddening cheeks to Jack once more. His thumb rubs along the high point of Mark’s cheek, Jack’s eyes sharp and yet soft all at once.

“You got some batter,” Jack murmurs, Mark feels the hand linger. His listens for the familiar sound of his mother’s footsteps or morning greetings to the trail of dogs that follows her, but can’t hear anything, and he _can_ hear Thomas snoring. Mark decides Jack is trying to make _them_ seem real, which means at least some PDA, even if no one else is around. He’s okay with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to explain why i was gone for so long. i did give up on this for a while there. seasonal depression + regular depression + bad relationship + lost my job + got a new job + full time uni + surgery. but now im back and im more genderless and more gay than ever. blake is back baby. got plans for marks and jacks lives here but not my own. 2/3 of the way there.


	4. Cold Feet and Hands

“It’s Christmas Eve eve,” Jack groans through sleep ladled breath, an arm thrown over his eyes in an attempt to shut out Mark, “and you want to go out?”

Mark, hands supporting the weight of his body against the back of the sofa Jack is lying across, shrugs a little as he sways impatiently.

“I want to see my friends and it would be weird if you didn’t come with me,” he argues, glasses slowly crawling down the high point of his nose as he looks down at the mop of green hair, covered in too many blankets than seems necessary.

"You'll see them tomorrow morning!" Jack complains, eyebrows touching his hairline in disbelief. 

"Bob and Tyler, not the whole crew," Mark corrects, as if it makes it any more bearable.

Jack moves his arm enough to open an eye and glare at Mark. “You’re insufferable,” Jack informs him, toes peaking from beneath hand knitted blankets as he stretches, mouth falling open in a yawn and catching the low sunlight in the afternoon air. “You’re-,” another, more intense yawn, breaks Jack’s sentence and any threat the statement may have held, “you’re lucky I love you.”

Mark feels his cheeks redden in embarrassment at the statement. Jack’s getting good at this fake relationship thing.

 

Mark is fidgeting the entire ride to the restaurant. This was his idea, and yet _he_ is the nervous one? What a joke.

He’s just really excited to see his friends is all, he tells Jack.

He doesn’t mention the fact he wants his old friends to like his new best friend/boyfriend. Wait-

“We don’t have to act around them,” he assures Jack, trying for the nonchalance he wishes he felt about Jack meeting his closest friends in person for the first time. “I need my moms off my back, not my friends,” he explains.

Silently, staring at the illuminated screen of his phone, Jack nods.

 

Bob is taller than he remembers. It’s been 9 months, and they’re supposedly fully grown men, but he’s taller than he remembers. And happier. As if it were possible. His huge smile and booming laughter leads them to the table of his closest friends, all sharing drinks and stories.

Mark smirks as he makes it to the table, Jack in tow, his hands on his hips.

“Am I that hard to deal with you’ve all already started drinking? Incredible,” he greets, smirk growing into a full faced grin as his friends notice his presence.

“If you’d have gotten here when you said to _be_ here, maybe we wouldn’t have had to, you outright jerk,” Tyler speaks, not an ounce of real bitterness in his voice.

“Ten minutes late, and I _spent_ those ten minutes trying to convince the _real_ jerk to join,” he retorts, pointing his thumb over his shoulder to Jack, who looks slightly perplexed at the interaction.

“You woke me up and told me you wanted to go into town on Christmas Eve eve - of course I didn’t want to come,” Jack defends, “but why would I miss an opportunity for more embarrassing stories about you?” Jack’s smirk is met with three offered high-fives from an assortment of people at the table.

“Heard about the first party we went to in Freshman year?” Wade inquires as they sit, his arm extended on the back of Molly’s chair beside him.

“Is there as much puking in a stranger’s shoes as I imagine there would be?” Jack inquires, crossing an ankle over his opposite knee, reaching forward for a menu. The laughter and scoffing around him answers his question.

 

It’s refreshing to just spend time with friends, Mark thinks. His live-in best friend, Jack, and his lifelong friends, sitting together and laughing, embarrassing Mark but the air around them is filled with bubbles from beer and champagne and laughter. The food is good, the company is good, and Mark is content. No pretending, no lying to the people that matter the most, no unfamiliar tightness in his chest when he catches Jack looking at him, no intrusive hand in his back jean pocket when he knows someone is watching. There’s underlying stress. Going home to his mom and pretending again, confusing where the line is in their relationship, going home to California to assignments and essays and exams and _just Jack_.

But that’s a problem for future Mark. Right now, with one hand holding a fork stuffed with warm food, and the other articulating his input to the conversation, he is content.

 

They’re walking the short distance from the restaurant to their Uber, Mark’s gaze stuck to the sky, city lights dimming the stars far less than in California. His smile is dopey and content, or it is until Jack complains beside him.

“I hate this,” he whines, referring to the cold weather, the red tip on his nose, the numbness he feels at the tips of his ears, the incapacitation that keeping hands warm in the bottom of coat pockets causes, “I hate _you_.”

Mark huffs at that, shaking his head as his eyes fall to the pavement below his feet.

“I give you a family, friends, and a boyfriend to spend the holidays with, and you’re complaining because you’re cold? Is your accent fake?” Mark questions, eye lifting to Jack, awaiting an answer. The first question was rhetoric; the latter was… only slightly.

Jack scoffs in disbelief, “You do realize water freezes at 0 degrees Celsius, and we’re mostly made of water? And that it’s colder than that right now?”

Mark’s been feeling like he needs to step up his game since the pancake incident. Like an eagle catching sight of an injured mouse, he dives in for the kill.

“If only you had a hot boyfriend to warm you up,” Mark speaks flippantly, “Pity about that, huh?”

He hopes Jack doesn’t notice his jolt in surprise as a hand worms its way into Mark’s pocket, fingers like ice as they wrap around Mark’s own.

It’s too warm in Mark’s thick winter coat, hairs on end tickled against the wool at his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was v short but I needed to write something bc my day was Not Good and I wanted to feel good!!!  
> 


	5. Reeled in by Heart and Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark is gay, but he isn’t _that_ gay.

When Mark stirs from his slumber on Christmas Eve, it’s to the distant muffled sound of Frank Sinatra, pads of small feet whacking against wooden floors, and the not-so-distant soft coos of Jack’s snores. It’s often like this – when Mark wakes up, before any other sense, his ears become hyper sensitive. Slowly, his body’s sense flip on, the sense of touch falling into place.

While Mark’s back is pressed into the mattress, Jack’s is not. At some point, their unconscious bodies had drifted to warmth, resulting in Mark’s chest becoming Jack’s pillow – or, apparently, his entire body. Jack’s leg had, at some point, become entangled with Mark’s own, his arm had wrapped around Mark’s waist, cold fingers dipped between the space of skin and mattress, green hair had made its way to burrow in Mark’s neck.

The warmth would have been appreciated on an unfairly cold morning, had it not been for Mark’s bladder _and_ morning wood.

Suppressing his groan, as well as not waking Jack while unpeeling their bodies, was the hardest thing Mark had endeavored this entire trip – well. Second hardest.

His skin is stained to match his hair when he removes himself from the shower almost a half hour later – partially from the heat of the water, mostly from the guilt of touching himself after an accidental snuggle with his best friend.

Not that his thought were filled with pasty slim legs and peppered chest hair. It’s difficult to touch yourself after rooming with anyone and not feel _any_ guilt, regardless of sub context. Mark is gay, but he isn’t _that_ gay.

 

Jack is standing over a bowl of oatmeal when Mark enters the kitchen, once his skin pales back to some semblance of normalcy. His hair is mused, his torso enveloped by a thick sweater, cables running down the center, drawing the eye to black, nondescript boxers. He’s bent at the hips, elbows resting on the counter, right hand holding his phone – open, if Mark is to guess by the way his thumb caresses the screen – and left holding a spoon.

It's the most attention Mark can ever remember giving Jack’s attire, especially with no reason to.

“Mornin’,” Mark mumbles, hair still damp, feeling both under and over dressed in his sweatpants and old t-shirt. His navigates his way around the balls of fluff at his knees, careful to not trod on any toes, and reaches for a mug to fill his veins with caffeine.

“You’re a good pillow, Mark,” is all Jack says before placing a spoon of gooey oats in his mouth, lips pink with the heat.

Mark near drops his favourite mug from his fingers. His face quickly tries to match his skin after his shower and he’s not quite sure on how to respond.

“Th-thanks?” he settles on. Even to his own ears, it sounds like he’s as flabbergasted as he truly is. He places his mug on the counter and moves his grip to the coffee pot, knuckles white as confusion settles into his skin cells.

“Next time let me at least appreciate the fact that you’re a walking furnace, all right?”

He wishes his mother weren’t already awake. It’s not 9 am yet, and Mark already needs a break from Jack’s copious flirting. He wishes the house were less like an origami house; walls like paper, and ready to fall if anything goes awry.

 

They take the fur-babies for a walk in the warmth of the afternoon. A leash in each of their hands, they walk side by side in the park, quiet in the hours before Christmas. It’s the kind of quiet you relish – the kind you take a nap in the sun for, the kind you swim in the soft waves of the sea for.

The sun bounces off the bridge of his nose, off the near invisible freckles across his cheeks, bounces off the light in the dogs’ eyes. It’s gorgeous. So beautiful that even the glare on his lenses doesn’t take away from it.

He turns to say as much to Jack, opens his mouth to speak, and his breath catches.

The sun dances in the space in front of his translucent skin. The light jumps from the curve of his nose, kisses the skin across his cheek bones, hides from the hollows, below the curve of his jaw. The blue of his eyes turn as pure as diamonds in the sun, sparkling so brightly that Mark confuses them for an engagement ring advertisement. His quiet smile sings like a siren, drawing in his eyes and heart, while his eyes sing a song like cherubs; both are enchanting, and both reel him in by heart and hand.

He closes his mouth and looks to Lucy, tugging on his left hand to sniff at a tree off the path.

 

There’s a quiet space in the dark of night that Mark cherishes. The time that those around him enter the deepest part of their sleep cycle, where he is safe to be with his thoughts.

And that’s what happens. It’s a little past 2 am, and both he and Jack retired to his – _their_ – bed about an hour and a half ago. To his left, Jack is quiet; his back is bare, soft blankets tucked around his ribs, secure and safe. The line of his back raises and lowers in the stripes of moonlight that filters through blinds.

What the fuck happened today?

Mark leans against the headboard behind him, runs his hands through hair the colour of strawberries. His brows furrow as his hands fall to his lap, eyes trained to them.

Christmas has always made Mark a little dramatically happy. His smile wider, his eyes filled with more sparkle, the corners of his eyes scrunched a little more, his laughter from deeper in his chest, his step with a little more spring.

Is that what happened?

The sun was warmer than it has been since they’d got here. Mark was surrounded by his most cherished pets, and his best friend. The angle of the sun had it bouncing off of _everything_ , and the glitter in Jack’s eye was just a coincidence.

So why did his chest hurt thinking of it? Why did it make him feel like the pause at the top of a roller coaster?

The rustling of the body beside him, and the murmur of sighing, breaks him from his thoughts. He stills, hoping his mulling didn’t stir Jack from his slumber. Jack rolls, his face turning to Mark’s side now. He looks… far more content than he should, considering he’s sleeping in an unknown state, house, and bed. Jack’s left arm snakes across the small space between them, and lands on Mark’s stomach – far too low if he weren’t too nervous about Jack reading his thoughts. The fingers that rest below his navel curl, fingertips holding skin determinately. Jack shimmies the rest of his body closer, bringing his head up to rest on Mark’s pectoral. Mark is stunned into silence.

“Cold,” he barely hears Jack mumble into his chest, inches away from his heart that beats far too fast for being sedentary in a bed. “Come ‘ere,” Jack whispers into flushing skin, burrowing his face into his ribs. Mark obliges, slowly pulling himself down the bed a little, allowing Jack to rest his head in the space below his collar bone. Once he stops moving, Jack hums contently, and curls his fingertips appreciatively to scratch at the skin below Mark’s navel, and above his-

 

This is going to be more stressful than he thought.


	6. Merry Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s hot. Too hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEED THE RATING CHANGE. Summary sentence in end notes if you're concerned.

It’s hot. Too hot.

Jack’s face is still pressed to his chest, but he’s now pressing kisses to the skin there repeatedly, teeth nipping at the skin. The hand below his navel is feather light, fingertips dancing cross feverishly hot skin. His abs clench and unclench under the unexpected attention.

“J-Jack?” Mark sputters out fingers pushing the green strands from his forehead, fingers weaving in between locks. “What’re you doing?” He pretends he doesn’t sound as breathless as he is. Jack hums, lips continuing to cherish Mark’s skin. His knee is stretched across Mark’s thigh, curling his body into Mark’s rigid one.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs, fingers at the waistband of his boxers coming to lay on his other pectoral. Jack leans on an elbow and lifts his head to look at Mark – cheeks red, flush dripping down his chest, a sheen of sweat across his forehead, fire red strands dulled in comparison to Mark himself. The fingers on his chest draw small circles, figure eights, flowers. He lights up at the touch, electricity burning in his veins, emanating from the fingertips against his heart.

“M-merry Christmas?” Mark echoes, barely forcing the words out before Jack is pressing kisses up his sternum. His free hand skitters up Mark’s side while he plants a column of kisses along Mark’s body, lips too warm, skin to warm, body to warm. Jack reaches the base of Mark’s throat, and he tugs at the skin just above his collar bone with his teeth, before licking the skin in apology. Mark’s hands, albeit confused, seek purchase on the smooth skin along the expanse of Jack’s back, a constellation of moles and spots. His fingers, calloused from helping build strength, still feel hypersensitive to the pane of Jack’s back, the small divets above the round expanse of his plush backside, the dip in his waist, the small hills at each knob along the pull of his spin, the sharp juts of his shoulder blades, the soft baby hairs that bleed from his hair line, the short, yet thick hair at the base of his skull, leading up to the longer, scratchier hair that falls in his face, tickles Mark’s forehead.

Jack’s palm, pressed against Mark’s chest, push him further into the mattress, stop him from sitting up, from moving, from taking control. The fingers that extend from the palm anchor themselves possessively in the pillowy warmth of Mark’s skin.

 There’s a need in Jack’s touch that Mark relates to – the yearning for feeling someone come apart at the seams under your control, to treasure them without letting them lift a finger, to cherish their body and control their pleasure.  

And boy, is Jack in control.

“Jack,” Mark sighs as the thin skin just below his ear is sucked at, “why are you doing this?” Not that he’s unappreciative of the attention. He hasn’t gotten laid in a while, unless you count his right hand, and occasionally left.

Jack brings the hand that was on Mark’s waist to his jaw, holding his chin in place as he presses open mouthed kisses to the skin there.

“Wishin’ you a merry Christmas,” Jack promises, kisses peppering Mark’s skin, lips planting a garden of affection closer and closer to his lips.

It’s like fireworks in his belly.

Jack’s lips are soft, and chapped, and tough like a well-done steak, all in one. Mark lifts his head from the pillow and presses closer to Jack, a hand winding into his hair.

He whines, oh _God_ , he _keens_ into Jack’s touch, his mouth opening a touch wider at the feeling of Jack’s tongue, soft and warm and it’s disgusting, it’s primal; they’ve both not brushed their teeth and have morning breathe and Mark doesn’t even remember if he brushed them before he went to bed last night during his freak out, and Jack is kissing him, his tongue is in his mouth, he’s got a hand drawing a line from the dip in his collar bones, to the dip between his hips and-

_Oh._

That’s Jack hand. Jack’s hand is definitely pressed against his half-chub. Jack is kneading the heel of his palm against Mark’s cock. Oh my God this is wrong. They’re best friends, they’re roommates, they’re _faking a relationship._

And yet Mark’s body has never reacted so keenly and he’s never felt a fire in his belly quite like this.

Jack bites down on Mark’s bottom lip, tugs it, licks over the longitude of it.

“Mm, God, Mark,” Jack moans, and when Mark opens his eyes, he meets Jacks, glazed over, blue replaced with black, euphoria, “meant to be giving you your present, and yet I think I’m enjoying this as much as you are.”

He rolls his hips, from beside Mark, where he’s pressed against Mark’s thigh, and _oh my God,_ that’s Jack’s penis. That’s his cock, rock hard, pressed into his thigh.

Mark thinks, belatedly, that it would be better if it was pressed into _him._

Mark’s fingers tighten in Jack’s locks, while the free hand winds around his center and pulls him closer, pulls him atop.

“God, please fuckin’ tell me you’re gonna fuck me,” Mark hears himself groan into Jack’s mouth, slack as their cocks align and grind together.

“Into the-,” Jack speaks quietly, breathlessness quickly taking over, “Into the fuckin’ mattress.”

The noise Mark lets escape from between his teeth is not deliberate.

There’s a fumble in their escapade as they take of their boxers in the dull morning light, as Mark’s boxers catch on his ankles, as Jack gets tangled in the blankets. But it’s worth it, because not too long later, Jack is kneeling between Mark’s knees, looking at him like he hung the moon, lumps and bumps and all.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Jack whispers, fingertips drawing lines up his thighs, drawing closer and closer to his throbbing cock, resting against his stomach, swollen and begging for attention, and he can feel pre-come cooling quickly on his stomach. He whines and curls in as much as he can, given Jack is between his knees. He brings his hands to his face, hides his embarrassment.

“Oh, baby,” Jack murmurs, fingers skittering up his skin, leaving fire in their wake, “don’t hide from me like that.” Mark doesn’t know what to do. His heart hurts from the attention and his balls hurt from being spread out like this for Jack to look at, touch, caress, care for.

He feels exposed in more ways than he thought possible.

“C’mon,” Jack prods, “let me see your face. I love how expressive you are.”

Mark doesn’t budge.

“Please?” Jack begs, voice quiet and pleading.

When he lets Jack pull his hands away, he instantly feels more confident than before.

Jack is looking at him like he’s the sun, and Jack is a dying man.

“There he is,” Jack whispers, breathless for a different reason this time. He rubs at Mark’s kneecaps, presses a kiss to his left one.

 

He jolts on the bed, covered in a film of sweat, Jack’s body still clinging to his own. He is far too aware of the weight of the blankets against his cock, as well as Jack’s leg swung over his own, knee barely there, but most definitely adding to the pressure he feels in his balls. It’s still an ungodly hour, still dark out, and Jack is still asleep next to him.

He doesn’t hesitate to spring out of the bed and bolt to the bathroom, doesn’t care about Jack’s quiet protests, slurred with sleep, as he leaves as fast as he can.

 

Mark isn’t sure which he feels guiltier about – having a sex dream about his best friend, or coming harder than he has since he lost his virginity thinking about it.

He leans on the bathroom counter for what feels like an hour, mulling over his thoughts, supressing his guilt, and _definitely not_ thinking about the fact Jack is asleep in the bed he fled from.

Jack is asleep when Mark sadly toes his way into the room again. He’s facing Mark’s side of the best, his arm is outstretched to the empty space, and he’s got a look of confusion on his normally cheerful face.

Mark moves Jack’s arm, curls it back towards his body, and sleeps facing his side of the bed, tucked on the edge, side seam digging into the corner of his kneecaps where the faint fake-memory of Jack’s touch remains.

He pretends he doesn’t feel guilty as he falls into restless sleep. It doesn’t work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They boned! Not really. Mark's subconscious might want to though? His dream self wasn't _against_ it. No. It's just the way the light bounced off Jack's eyes, kissed his skin, made everything glow like it was blessed. He's an actor on a screen, and needn't get his character and true self confused. 
> 
> Keep your expectations of updates low please so I don't feel bad when I probably give up on this for another 3 months


	7. Life of Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His chest is tight and warm with the feeling of acceptance, of love, in his veins. Like a puppy when you first bring them home, knowing that they’re a part of your family forever.   
> Which isn’t terribly inaccurate, Mark decides.

Christmas is one of Mark’s favorite holidays. He wakes up in his bed, stretches like a starfish, and is ready for a long day with both his moms and both sides of his family. He showers, he dresses in a terrible Christmas sweater he loves too much, and walks towards the kitchen to greet his mom and give her gift to her.

He stutters when he sees Jack.

Jack is sitting on the sofa, feet tucked under his thighs, resting to the side with his elbow leaning on the sofa. The book in his fingers, “Life of Happiness: Life is Full of Questions” is heavy and an uncomfortable weight in his fingers.

He looks _happy_. He’s got – presumably – hot cocoa in a mug between his hands, dark blue of the cup contrasting the reflective glitter of his skin. The steam dances upwards, kissing his nose and dispersing along his hair. He laughs with a joke his mom tells, body and shoulders shaking. His eyes sparkle with cheer, and mimic the fairy lights on the Christmas tree behind him.

Mark pretends he wasn’t staring when Jack looks up to him with a soft smile. He exhales, and a breath he wasn’t aware he held silently screams his confusion, confliction, his guilt, and his anxiety.

It’s Christmas – he doesn’t need this. He _will_ be happy today. Jack doesn’t know anything; doesn’t _have_ to know anything. It was a weird sex dream that happened because his mind was making sense of the previous day in which he looked at Jack, and there were constellation in his eyes due to the angle of the sunlight around them. It’s fine – for Christ’s sake, he’s had sex dreams about his Starbucks barista and his middle school history teacher before. Jack isn’t the first, and won’t be the last. His insatiable hunger for human touch is the strongest feeling Mark has, and Jack’s unusual proximity, due to their act, is why it happened. Deep breath in, hold for 1, 2, 3, and exhale. You’re fine. It’s a fluke.

He steps towards his mom, mind alight with anxiety and guilt, and she’s ever beautiful and youthful as the day he was born. He stops behind her seat on the recliner, rests a hand on her shoulder, shifts the hand with the gift towards her lap, and presses a kiss to her hair.

“Merry Christmas, mom,” he murmurs, “I love you.”

He pretends the words don’t remind him of lightning under his skin, a fading mem- dream. It was a dream.

Her soft hands grip his forearm, a sign of affection; not too tight to hurt, tight enough to know she’s there to support him. She sighs contentedly, placing her now empty mug on the side table.

“Having you here is enough of a gift,” she reminds him. “Both of you,” she _really_ reminds him. Mark’s warm, adoring eyes lift and lock on to Jack’s piercing blue ones. They share a quiet appreciative smile together, and simultaneously look back down.

His chest is tight and warm with the feeling of acceptance, of love, in his veins. Like a puppy when you first bring them home, knowing that they’re a part of your family forever.  

Which isn’t terribly inaccurate, Mark decides.

“Unwrap your gifts!” his mom exclaims, breaking Mark from his thoughts. Mark sighs, rolls his eyes, and lightly knocks her shoulder.

“You and Di flew both of us home for Christmas – that’s more than enough, mom,” Mark argues, but knows not to push a fight with her gift, lest he want a slap upside the head. She waves a dainty hand dismissively, shooing him to pick the wrapped gifts under the tree with each of their names on them. There are other gifts there – a few for his brother’s side, a few for his mom’s friends, and some names he doesn’t recognize.

“If this is worth more than a happy meal, I’m giving it back,” Mark promises, despite everyone in the room knowing there is no threat behind his words.

It is worth more than a happy meal – Mark can tell before even opening the square wrapped on his hands. He can feel the contents is pliant, and soft. He knows its clothing of some kind – maybe a throw rug?

His fingers pry apart the wrapping paper – Santas are torn in half, there are North Stars being turned into full constellations, and candy canes are being turned into spears.

Wool. Knitted wool. Deep blue, thick, braids of stitching running along the length. Mark feels his cheeks burn with a smile – God, he loves heavy, thick, too-warm-for-Californian-summer sweaters.

He lifts the sweater from its casing, and it reveals more colors. White knits – or are they pearls? He never was good at knitting – are sporadically placed along the back of the sweater.

Oh. Wait. Not sporadic – placed with reason.

His fingers run along the white thread, soft beneath his fingers, reading the shapes through his fingertips. Mark lifts his eyes to Jack, seeking confirmation of what he sees. His eyes are playing a joke on him, right?

Jack’s eyes are as wide as his own, but instead of confusion, rather they are filled with awe.

“If lost return to Jack” is all his sweater says. And Jack’s, from his angle, reads “I’m Jack”.

Even his mom is mocking him.

Mark stares as his crotch in pointed shame.

 

Despite his guilt, despite his shame, Mark wears the sweater. It’s warm, its soft, it reminds him of home, of his mom’s cooking – and the stray here-and-there strands of dog fur remind him of his beloved family pets.

Plus, his mom would kill him if he didn’t at least wear it for one day.

So that’s where they land; Mark is standing alongside the stove, gas burner quietly hissing with a tiny ring of blue flames, a crackling pan above it, fingers covered in egg that he soaks pieces of bread in, while Jack sits by the island, thumbs flicking through his social media, eyes flicking from the scripting between Mark’s shoulders, and the tight hugging sweat pants. His mom, stationed in her self-designated chair, is nursing a second cup of coffee, not out of eyesight, not _not_ a part of their place in the kitchen.

The screech of chair legs on linoleum, alerting Mark’s ears to twitch in the direction to keep track of the movement. His fingers drop a soaked piece of bread into the pan, oil dancing, jumping, jarring. Much like him when he feels Jack’s cold fingers wrap around his waist from beside him, fingers finding their way under wool and onto smooth skin. Mark lifts his eyes, wide with shock, to Jack’s soft ones, striking blue like the ocean on a clear day, like the crashing waves along the sharpened rocks.

“Merry Christmas, Mark,” Jack speaks, somewhere between a murmur and a normal conversation. His face is too close, eyes too warm, and he’s caught on Mark’s lips, licking his own.

Mark can only squeak before Jack brings a hand to his jaw, cupping the strong bone. Mark’s fingers are covered in egg, his mouth is dry, his head is full of downy feathers like a pillow, and he’s panicking. Jack is too close; he’s so close Mark can feel the heat emanating from his body.

Jack kisses him, and his lips are chapped, but not uncomfortably. It innocent, all image and no action, but it sets his on fire, flush filling his neck, the tips of his ears. Their lips are locked, and Jack isn’t pushing, rather, he’s letter Mark control when it ends. Mark wishes his hands weren’t covered in egg, that he could hold Jack’s hips and wish him a merry Christmas as well. Jack's mouth isn't closed, but it isn't open either, and Mark feels the warm, wet heat of Jack's tongue graze his top lip; a silent question, a call for consent. Mark obliges, turns to wrap his arms around Jack's shoulders, and lets his eggy fingers stand out once he does, careful not to drip on Jack's new sweater. Their mouths are visibly widened from before, Mark's tongue dancing in delight in the shallows of Jack's mouth, jack's own tongue caressing Mark's like he's holding a lover, like he is loved, like he is a beam of light in the darkness. Mark hears himself whine, a small, higher pitched noise that filters through tongue and teeth-

“You can make out _after_ you’ve made breakfast, you two,” they hear a threat come, no intention of following through. They break apart, Jack’s smile cunning; like the cat that caught the mouse, and Mark isn't sure if it's for him, or his mom. Meanwhile, Mark’s train of thought looks like a train  _wreck_. His mom is close, has a sense of hearing far better than Mark’s own, but Jack is selling them so well that Mark even was lost for a moment in that kiss - if that whine is anything to go by. It wasn’t special, but it still set every nerve in his body on fire. Jack kissed him, like he was a piece of diamond in God’s hands, aged with wisdom and truth, all the secrets of the Earth and below, put his body and soul into the kiss. and yet _Jack kissed Mark_. Why is Jack getting a degree in hotel management when he's clearly an amazing actor that could put Nicholas Sparks novels to shame.

Mark needs to not be such a bubble blowing baby and sell their relationship too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMOOCH SMOOCH IN MATCHING SWEATERS (〃‿〃✿)  
> We broke 10k!! This is officially my longest fic (apart from that one 87k jonas brothers one from 2008, but we'll ignore that)  
> I'm sorry I don't respond to your comments very much - I honestly don't know what to say to most of them. But know I read them all over and over, even if you think I've forgotten the 'comment' buttons don't work. There aren't a huge crowd of them, but I still am speechless that anyone likes my first take on my favorite trope.


	8. Play with My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Di ages like Barosa wine, maturing with age, life planting its feet in the lines of her face, but treasured more and more with it.

The sun had risen, said it’s midday prayer, kissed each petal on every flower, snuggled against each blade of grass, and bid its farewell before Mark and Jack arrive at his step-mom’s. Di’s Christmas celebrations were large; every family member and their family members need to attend, and so it was a strictly dinner event to save Di and her hoard of mini-mes (or, rather, not-so-mini-mes, since those under 16 were bound to get distracted) from trying to feed an exhaustive list of people.

They take his mom’s car, driver’s seat lived in, and yet more comfortable than the unknown of any taxi or uber. Jack sits to his right, a foot resting on the edge of the seat, knee’s weight against the door, holding his leg up. His arms rest between his legs, phone singing with taps as Jack relaxes. He bobs his head in time with a song Mark can’t hear, since Jack knows Mark prefers to drive without it, and for the first time since he was a rebellious teenager with a new licence, he wants to hear it while he drives, wants to hear the sweet melody frolic with the particles that fill the air.

Mark should really pay more attention to the road.

When they arrive at Di’s home, there’s several cars to compete for a park with; every house on the street must have both sides of everyone’s families over, because Mark blesses whatever God is out there for the lone spot in the driveway. When the car is in park, Mark turns to unbuckle his seatbelt, but his eyes fall to Jack. The closer they got to the home, the more out of himself Jack had seemed. His fingers grasp empty air, like he’s learning how to hold things all over again, hair falls in his face, covering the deep, striking blue with green that mimics the inside of rose stems, lips tied in a firm line, unmoving.

Mark lowers his left hand to Jack’s thigh, the one that is now shaking in tiny movements that would go unnoticed if the car were moving – that _did_ go unnoticed when the car was moving. He lays his hand flat on the denim of Jack’s jeans, presses his fingertips into the fabric enough for it to break Jack’s thoughts, if the stopped jittering and thick swallow are anything to go by.

“Hey, what’s up?” Mark asks, unsure of what Jack needs from him. Jack shakes his head and wrings his hands like a towel, mumbles something Mark doesn’t quite catch. Mark rubs circles on Jack’s thigh, pressure enough to be known through denim and anxiety, silently prodding him to speak up, trust Mark.

“Your whole family, bar direct blood relation, are going to be here,” Jack explains. “What if they don’t like me?” he whispers, and Mark wishes it doesn’t sound as weak as it truly does.

“They will,” is all Mark can say, his head nodding in agreement of his words. “If my mom likes you, who never liked any of my exes from the get-go, then Di is going to be over the Goddamn moon,” he finishes. They have to; it’s an obligation for family to at least feign loving each other, right?

Jack seems to trust him a little, if the small huff of laughter and sympathetic smile are anything to go by, which is good, because Mark seems to have taken on some of Jack’s anxiety, balancing it between the two of them. He thoughtfully watches Jack fiddle with the hem of his sweater, navy blue making his eyes, however nervous, shine like stars in the night sky.

 

They walk side by side up to the house, the fairy lights and soft hum of a full home leading them like ships to a port. Jack’s steps are half of one behind Mark’s, though, and it doesn’t take much to read that it’s from nerves. They pause at the front door, and Mark takes a deep breath, knowing it’s the last one he’ll be granted before the end of the night.

As soon as the door is an inch open, they flock to him. Ankle biters of age groups Jack can only describe as “small” and “smaller” attack Mark’s legs, and they’re probably both thankful that Jack was a step behind him. It was probably inevitable that the force of their apparent love, mixed with their sugar highs running from Christmas morning until night, knock Mark back into Jack’s chest, arms like the inside of a Kinder Surprise instinctively wrapping around to brace his fall. Needless to say, it draws attention. A shrieking chorus of questions raise, and it only slightly overwhelms Jack, from the peripherals Mark can see as he takes his own weight back, weight shifting to the side so Jack can’t remain a hidden mystery.

Jack’s hand seeks purchase in Mark’s own, fumbling to find its place. Jack’s pure as Artic Ice skin sweats with nervousness – or is that his own? Judging by the drop in temperature in strictly the 3-inch radius off of his hands, it might be him. Once they manage to intertwine their fingers, Mark’s thumb drawing circles on the back of Jack’s hand, he speaks.

“My boyfriend,” Mark manages to barely stutter out, lips trembling on the ‘m’, teeth filling the ‘d’ a little unnaturally. Jack squeezes his hand, and they’re bracing for impact, despite knowing Di raised her children, and her children’s children, right. Mark can see Jack’s head raise; eyes turn to find his own, appraisal for support. A silent thank you for standing by him. Mark can see the anxiousness raising from him like electricity; like his skin feels when Jack touches him. The pint-sized squeals are matched with a visual; from in front of them, a flash goes off, light brighter than night skies are allowed to speak of.

 

“Oh my, Mark,” a warm weathered voice sings out, “he’s so handsome!” The feminine voice is attached to a woman like fine wine, her blonde hair curling around her face like a picture frame, eyes warm and loving, age lines only accentuating her features. Her head slightly upturned, neck pulling her head back as she examines the photograph, like all middle aged people. She lowers the phone once she deems the photograph good enough, and once his eyes readjust to the light, he smiles – Di ages like Barosa wine, maturing with age, life planting its feet in the lines of her face, but treasured more and more with it.

Her eyes fall to Jack, examining his green hair, pierced ears, striking blue eyes that could make a man twice his size whimper in pleasure _or_ pain. Yet she sees the matching sweater, the hands clammy with nerves, his anxious posture, and the way his body tilts into Mark’s barely enough to realise. She sees the way Mark is comfortable with him; always a good judge of character, the way he angles his body to face Jack, assure that he’s still comfortable, still okay with being bombarded with a seemingly infinite number of Mark’s family. Di brings in a breath, holds it for a moment, fills it with the love and adoration she feels for all of her children, before looking Jack in the eyes and speaking only to him “Finally, a son I can be proud of.”

The yells of protest from every angle of the home mimic that of dying angels, yet Di continues without missing a beat.

“We were wondering how long it would take you two to get together,” she confesses, rolling her eyes with nothing but love. “God, the way and the extent that Mark talks about you, Jack, I thought you were together before last Christmas,” she tells, lowering her phone to the side table by her knees. “’Course he did spend his ‘once a month’ phone call to me talkin’ about you,” it’s at this point that true confusion sets in, “if he weren’t so enamored by you, I’d be jealous of all the attention he gives you.”

Mark tries not to let the confusion show on his face; he barely remembers mentioning Jack, let alone fawning over him. She’s stretching the truth, like all mothers do, he decides, and rubs his free hand on the nape of his neck, both for show of Relationship-Mark’s embarrassment, and to massage the tension from the apex of his shoulders. So far, so good.

Like a mother who’d not seen her son for months on end, Di steps towards them, hands outstretched like she’s waiting to hold a small animal. Mark braces for impact; Di cupping her face, pressing kisses to his forehead, cheeks, telling him he should call more, giving him a light, but firm, flick to the ear for not calling more.

He’s left to wait for Di to greet him properly as she holds Jack’s jaw, presses seemingly infinite kisses to his nose, cheeks, forehead. Mark stares at the interaction; Jack looks like he simultaneously wants to cry from happiness and fear, but the happiness seems to be winning, if only slightly. When she pulls back, Mark gets a hug so tight that he can feel the threat; _call me more than once a month_. He brings his empty hand to her back, rubbing circles between her shoulder blades.

Gifts go without much of a hitch. Of course, fitting as many people in a single room with a finite number of seats means Mark sits between a sea of children, all overly excited Mark is home, and Jack is, by process of elimination, is left to sit on Mark’s lap. The only hitch is in Mark’s breath, and he purposefully, guiltily, keeps as much distance between Jack and his crotch as possible, else he be willing to ruin his own life.

With a family so large, buying gifts for every person would land even the most financially stable of their family in debt for years, and so everyone decides as a group what to buy each person (sans the person in question, of course) and then everyone chips in equally for each gift.

Which explains why Mark and Jack are both given PS4 controllers, their names written in dark text within the light up area at the back.

One of Mark’s step sister’s husbands makes a quick gripe from somewhere in the other end of the living room, behind a sea of children, “Those aren’t to play with each other’s hearts, you hear?”

Mark wishes his laugh, echoing that of those around him, wasn’t as self-deprecating as it feels.


	9. This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love my best friend, Lachlan,” speaks a voice, not as tiny as those who invade Mark’s love life, but still admittedly small, “Will we be as in love as you two one day?”

As soon as dinner had started, plates of roast meats, vegetables, and steamed peas being passed from person to person, eggnog was replaced with wine and scotch, and those underage were left with their drinks made of pure liquid sugar. Mark and Jack make a good drinking pair, since Mark can’t without, you know, dying, and Jack can easily hold Mark’s share. Which means Jack is approximately four scotches in by the end of dinner, and he isn’t drunk by any means, but his eyes are glazed over, slightly unfocused, and he smacks his lips before speaking in hushed whispers to Mark, asking, “Who’s that again?” or “How are you related to this person again?” for each person that pipes up, except for Di, who clearly left an impression on Jack’s heart.

And the fact that Jack’s leaning towards Mark each time he asks, looking at him like he’s seeing the top of Mount Everest; confusion, adoration for what’s in front of him, a sea of people who love each other despite the countless number of faces, appreciation for letting him be a part of his Christmas, fake boyfriend or not… Well, it helps their cover, and Mark ignores the feeling of someone knocking on his chest from the inside. 

Mark is the only sober one – all those allowed to drink have done so in near excess, considering they’re surrounded by family, and those who are not have drunk copious amounts of fizzed drinks, sugar filling their bellies and widening their eyes, feeding their squeals of happiness. Jack isn’t _drunk_ , but he’s definitely intoxicated enough to raise a pinkness to his cheeks like the artificial stain blush provides. Those with their partners are sitting closer than Mark remembers when dinner started, heads leaning together and private laughter shared. They all look at each other like their partner put the stars in the night sky, like the sun has hand painted each freckle and piece of pigment into their skin.

Mark needs to piss.

He places his knife and fork on his plate, dinner long gone by everyone at the table, and he pretends not to see the started and hurt look on Jack’s face as he retreats – no, escapes – to the bathroom. He locks the door firmly in place behind him, presses his back to it, and lets out a breath that shakes in time with the vibrations of his shoulders.

His mind plays out their walk with the dogs, the way the sun caressed Jack’s skin, the way the angle of the light danced like swords in a dramatic battle in his eyes, the way his smile was so genuine and private that he probably didn’t even notice it himself.

Mark’s not – he’s not. It was the mood of the afternoon, the light bouncing off anything it touched – _everything_ looks gorgeous when the sun hits it at just the right angle. Everything makes Mark pause and drink in the sight of it.

It was a fluke – a onetime thing. It won’t happen again.

He scrubs his face, runs his hands through his hair, shakes his head. His entire family, bar his mom and brother, are out there, and he just left Jack to fend for himself. Not cool, Mark.

He takes another five minutes to calm himself down, and to actually pee.

When Mark eventually returns to the table, Jack’s eyes meet his as soon as his fingers wrap around the chair, tugging it backwards so he can sit again. Jack looks like he’s grateful Mark is back, looks like he survived by himself, but only just. Like a gazelle attacked by a lioness, skin pulled from muscle, blood clotting, light headed but surviving.

Mark is proud of Jack like he just watched him graduate.

When he sits, Jack instantly leans towards him, knocks shoulders, a silent _how dare you leave me to fend for myself_. Jack doesn’t have to tell Mark twice. He smiles apologetically, lifts his drink to his lips, sipping from the cup, to hide his shame.

“Do you love Mark, Jack?” a tiny voice behind Jack asks. Mark chokes, lips bubbling, sputtering the water that manages to burn his throat back into the cup, bouncing back and slapping him in the face, glasses covered in droplets of liquid. Jack looks to him, snickering into his fist before patting Mark’s back soothingly. He looks to the tiny voiced child, snickers still coming through in his words.

“I do,” he speaks, voice quiet but firm in what he says. Mark hears two coos of awe from different angles, and Jack sits back, picks up his scotch to nurse it between both hands.

“Who said it first?” comes another voice, beside Mark this time, small hand tugging on his sleeve.

“I did,” they both respond simultaneously.

Fuck.

Mark stutters, fumbling to save their response for the both of them, fingers tugging at the bumps of knits and pearls on the bottom of his sweater, praying to find a way to stop this from being a mess.

“I told Mark before we were dating,” Jack says, voice filled with a confidence Mark can’t relate to, “but he thought I meant it in a friend way, so when we _did_ get together, he said it first.” Mark is shocked by how quick Jack can think of their backstory, and the subtle but purposeful way he picks Mark’s hand off of his lap and holds their intertwined fingers in clear eyesight of the two awe-inspired children beside them.

Mark is in as much awe as the ankle biters, if the tightness in his throat and the pinch behind his nose is anything to go by.

“I love my best friend, Lachlan,” speaks a voice, not as tiny as those who invade Mark’s love life, but still admittedly small, “Will we be as in love as you two one day?”

Mark doesn’t know how to answer that. His mind blanks for a moment, becoming a pane of stark white, his mind void of even a table to rest upon, gather his thoughts; he tries to anyway. Mark and Jack are best friends, and at this point Jack is Mark’s soul mate, like Meredith Grey and Cristina Yang, so if the tides of fate keep them together, there’s nothing stopping them from still being best friends. Mark is in love with Jack, but they’re not _in_ love. Mark loves Jack so deeply it hurts; wants to see him happy, succeed at anything he puts his heart into, to see him find someone as lively and energetic as himself. Mark sits on this thought for a moment, fingers cupping the curve of his chin in thought.

“Maybe even more, but you have to wait until you’re as old as us,” Jack warns, dropping Mark’s hand to wiggle all ten fingers in front of her small face, “otherwise your fingers will fall off and you won’t be able to hold his hand!” The small gasp of horror is genuine, but she knows it isn’t truthful. The only thing close that will happen is she’ll lose baby teeth.

“Jack, that’s mean!” Mark chides, slapping the back of his hand across Jack’s bicep. He laughs in reply, shaking with the silliness.

“It isn’t completely incorrect,” Jack argues, fighting to keep his head above water, or in this case, Mark’s wrath over a crying child.

“They should probably wait until they understand the implications,” Mark gives Jack that much, “but the fingers falling off is highly unlikely and would have nothing to do with whether or not they love each other in the event that their fingers do, in fact, fall off.”

“I’m glad I didn’t meet you until we were hold enough to ‘understand the implications’,” Jack makes a note of putting exaggerated air quotations around the phrase, “because it means our fingers didn’t fall off, and now I can do this.”

‘This’ turns out to be holding Mark’s hand for the rest of their time surrounded by his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Children ask too many invasive questions.
> 
> Thank u to the ppl who added me on snapchat !! I hope u turn ur wisdom teeth into a cool necklace, Casey! If you add me and send me pictures of ur pets I'll send you sneak peeks for the next chapter! @dead_red


	10. Paper Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bed is cold; Mark says as such. He wishes he didn’t have to crawl into a cold bed, but electric blankets worry him, so when Jack retorts with the suggestion, Mark gawks. Jack tells him to shut his damn mouth, then, and use the human heater next to him.  
> “You’re not going to try and Dutch oven me, right?”  
> “Only if you don’t stop whinin’,”

Once they’ve returned to Mark’s childhood home, sweaters loved and lived in, hearts, heads, and body exhausted from such a long day, they retreat to bed. Their jeans are forgotten and replaced with adored, decade old sweatpants, their shoes replace with socks covered in snow men and candy cans. They sit in front of the television for a small while, cool blue glow of the television and phone in front of his face dulling Jack’s eyes as they show each other cute dogs and hilarious posts. The glow stops Jack’s eyes from singing like stars in the night sky, but they still glow, like the moon in the day – less obvious, but still there, winning a battle every other rock in the galaxy is losing. Mark sits on this thought like an egg soon to hatch, even once they retreat to bed, their tummies filled with hot cocoa and their heads filled with echoes of each other’s laughter.

The bed is cold; Mark says as such. He wishes he didn’t have to crawl into a cold bed, but electric blankets worry him, so when Jack retorts with the suggestion, Mark gawks. Jack tells him to shut his damn mouth, then, and use the human heater next to him.

“You’re not going to try and Dutch oven me, right?” Mark asks Jack, who’s traded sweatpants for sheets and fluffy blankets against his bare legs, boxers covered the bare minimum for the sake of saving awkward conversations. Jack pauses, blankets around his waist, thinks for a moment.

“Only if you don’t stop whinin’,” he replies, and Mark knows it isn’t a lie, but isn’t a threat either.

“I don’t like cold nights; why do you think I’m going to a college in California?” Mark defends himself, hand on his hip as he pulls the covers back on his side, Jack already tucked in. The lamp by Mark’s head emits a soft glow in the room, like a salt lamp, or like fairy lights.

“To see another part of the world? To get a good education?” Jack offers as Mark pulls the sweater over his head, stomach showing as the sweater takes his shirt with it, cold air making his abdominals clench with the impact of it. He makes a sound of disbelief as he does so to Jack.

“We both know college isn’t about education, Jack,” he huffs as he shucks the sweater and tangled shirt by the bed. Jack looks at him, the blacks of his eyes wide in the dark, so much so that the blue blends with white, and Jack both looks like a demon, and devilishly handsome.

Mark shakes the thought as he sits up in the bed, legs under the covers. He groans at the feeling of the cold against his feet, which he’s certain matches the temperature of the sheets, dark and cold with neglect.

Jack knocks his feet with Mark’s.

“Quit your bitchin’,” he warns, “if you wake your mom up, she’ll kill you, and then I’ll kill you after she kills you for bein’ unthinkin’.”

He’d be mad if Jack’s feet weren’t radiating heat like a bonfire fuelled by the branches that fall from the trees in autumn.

Mark presses his feet against Jack’s, begs silently for warmth as Jack jumps a little in shock, presses his calves along the length of those as white as hospital walls, as he wraps his legs around the mass of muscle, heat like a dying man’s last meal.

Jack’s laughter rings through Mark’s ears, warms his heart like he’s warming his feet, begs for attention like Mark is warmth.

“Don’t be a hog, you jerk,” Jack pokes. “You ever heard of personal space?”

He knows it’s a joke when Jack presses the soles of his feet to Mark’s calves, holds his knee between Mark’s thigh.

 

They lay there for a while, after Mark bumps his lamp and puts the light to sleep, legs intertwined, covers pulled up to their chests, hands holding phones where cold screens scroll through pictures of warmer times; throwbacks to summer, that one holiday at Disney World, photos of proposals from older friends, admired for their years together and wisdom that can only come from a life of loving another person.

“Hey,” Jack speaks, voice quiet as to not disturb the air; dust and pollen asleep, everything static until the sun rises once more. Mark turns his head to Jack, and he makes a small noise of inquisitive confirmation.

“I didn’t give you your present yet,” he reminds Mark, voice nervous. Mark sits up from his position in the bed and fumbles to slap the touch-control lamp beside his head.

The glow envelopes Jack once more, and Mark sees the small smile on his face. Mark holds his hands out expectedly, smirk on his face, evident he’s joking about his expectation of a gift. He doesn’t need a gift from Jack on Christmas to know they’re each other’s best friend – in fact, it _was_ an unspoken rule of their friendship; they’re broke college kids with student loans with more figures than their names.

Jack leans across himself, opens the drawer beside the bed, blindly fishes for something in the draw. Mark’s head cocks in confusion for a moment before Jack speaks again.

“It’s not much,” he warns, hand retrieving a small wad of paper. If the gift isn’t much, then why does he look so nervous?

“Good,” Mark confirms, nodding slightly, “because you’re breaking just about the only rule I’ve ever cared about in our relationship.” Mark’s grin tells otherwise, but it’s a truthful statement. Jack huffs laughter through a smile that shows on only half his face, clear disbelief evident on his face, his fingers twitching with the obvious need to hold a stress ball, but Mark’s gift is between his fingers.

Jack passes the wad of paper to Mark, his fingers pausing as he leaves his evidence of thinking of Mark more than necessary in said man’s hands.

It’s an IOU book.

Mark sighs, thinking about how as a child, they looked useless, cheap, and thoughtless. But something about the chicken scratch that’s unique to Jack makes Mark’s heart swell, his throat close over, mind go blank.

Mark runs his fingers across the cover; printer paper cut and stapled into the tiny coupon like book. He forces himself to look away from the cover and look at the inside – he needs to see all of it, and after all, you can’t judge a book by its cover.

_IOU breakfast in bed_

_IOU one (1) quiet study session_

_IOU a homemade dinner that isn’t instant ramen_

_IOU two (2) movie tickets_

_IOU one (1) pizza with as many toppings as I know you’ll want_

_IOU a coffee run_

_IOU one fast food run_

_IOU wingman Jack_

_IOU one (1) night home alone_

Mark sits in awe at every single one of them, even the last one, until it processes and Mark snorts, pushing Jack’s shoulder firmly.

Jack smiles in embarrassment, then quietly nods upwards.

“Look at the last page,” he murmurs.

_IOU return flights home for you and +1 (or you x2)_

Mark is going to fucking cry and punch Jack in the face at the same time. It means more than he can find words to describe that he would do this – _all_ of this.

So he expresses himself in the most appropriate, and least violent, way he can. He throws himself at Jack, wraps his arms around the smaller, startled frame, and buries his head in Jack’s neck.

“You’re a fucking jerk,” he laughs into Jack’s pulse, heavy and quick under the thin skin along his neck, “how dare you give me this," and he isn't wrong to be in disbelief. They're both college kids living in a tiny room in California; barely scrape together enough to get pizza once a week, let alone  _flights_. 

Jack slowly deflates from his on edge position then, laughing at Mark’s rhetoric question, and wraps his arms around Mark's back, rubbing up and down along the knobs of Mark’s spine, shoulders broad and breathing _warm, safety, home_ from his posture, though that isn't a new trait.

 

Christmas day was a roller coaster of emotions for both the fake Mark and Jack, and the real ones. The mixture of exhaustion from acting and an extended day of social interaction leaves both of them tired to the point of small tears pooling in their eyes at each yawn, and they fall asleep not long after Jack gives Mark the gift. They lay facing one another from their respective sides of the bed, content smiles on their faces despite the dark wash of fatigue under their eyes, Mark longing for, but not willing to initiate, the warmth of Jack’s torso resting alongside his own, while their calves intertwine once more, and his heart nurses its tiny paper cuts from holding the gift so close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love iou books !!


	11. Ice cubes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My mom is right there,” Mark begs them all to stop, voice squeaking with fear and concern. He wishes they’d all drop it, that he could go back in time forty-five seconds, that Bob didn’t look immediately to Mark’s face after his mom dropped a nuke on her own home, broke Mark’s heart and stomped on his lifeless corpse.

Friend-Christmas is just as important as Family-Christmas, in Mark’s eyes. Family is bound to dates and times, but friends aren’t as strict in their calenda6rgurs and traditions. It’s for this reason that Christmas celebrations – warm drinks in bellies, roasted meat, salads, and drinks that warm bellies themselves – occur on Boxing Day. The group had come to Mark’s home this year, Tyler stating, “We need to make up for never seeing you anymore,” in a joking statement, a lick of truth lacing the words.

Which is why Mark’s mother, a graceful and willing party host, has some sort of poultry and a shoulder of beef in the oven, house filling with the aroma of spices and juices, when he wakes up late in the morning, sun slicing through the uncovered space in the closed blinds to cut at his eyes. Jack is still asleep by his side, not pushing, but pressed into Mark’s ribs. Mark lifts his arm, shuffles his body to fit his body to the curve of Jack’s own, and lets the silence after the storm that is Christmas envelope him, his mother distantly humming away to the song she plays.

 

Christmas is about enjoying time with loved ones. What better way to spend it than with your best friends? This is a philosophy Mark swears by, and makes it known by the grin on his face when his friends and their partners filter into the kitchen as the sun dances low on the horizon in a tango with lean branches on trees. Jack sips away at his rum and cola, left to his right as he leans on the bench in front of Mark, watching him plate shaved meats, lighter vegetables to save stomachs still packed from the events of the day previous, homemade bread rolls, his laughter somehow sounding more genuine than those in the room around him. While Mark gets dinner on plates – “Mom, you slaved in this kitchen all day; this is among the least I can do,” – Jack puts plates on the table. As Mark finishes with each plate, Jack lifts them up, twists to face the table, and finds an appropriate place for them; like they’ve done this for years, not the last five minutes.

“Ah, they work so well together; they make such a good couple,” Mark hears his mom speak, statement clearly a vocalisation of her thoughts and not intended to be responded to, but evidently heard by all of those waiting for Mark and Jack to finish plating the last few items. Mark’s shoulders tense, his grip on the knife in his hand tightening until knuckles fade to white, like he’s become a ghost. He wishes he truly would; save him from the situation that’s about to break down.

Grins like a lioness about to pounce on unsuspecting prey land on Mark’s figure from every angle, Jack’s back as straight as Mark wishes he was in this moment.

Who’s going to break the silence first? Mark forces himself to inhale, feeling the handle of the knife in his death vice start to warp under his touch, and opens his mouth to speak-

“I knew it,” Bob breathes, smirk unmoving from his face, eyes lit up with excitement like a child in a theme park, “I knew something was up the other day.”

“I-I can explain,” Mark fumbles, knife in his hand rotating like he isn’t sure if he wants to stab the piece of roast meat, or himself, who is about to be roasted.

“Called it, in like, July” Tyler laughs to himself, glass of Coca-Cola topped with ice, cubes lingering together, keeping close, like Mark and Jack as they’re stared at like the main attraction at a theme park.

Which isn’t inaccurate.

The sound of Wade slapping Tyler’s arm and the echoes of laughter shake Mark from his fear for a moment, “I guess you won the bet, Tyler,” he speaks, voicing his defeat. “How much was it? Fifty?” he asks, leaning forward as he pulls out his wallet, fingers deep into the notes buried alongside gum wrappers.

Mark’s breathing begins to quicken, his palms sweat like an imitation of the Nile river, his mouth doing an impression of the Sahara Desert. His legs feel like the jelly in the dessert, his head is swimming as though he’s drunk something he shouldn’t have, his eyes losing focus like he’s about to either cry or pass out.

Jack grips his forearm from across the bench, thumb digging into the skin there, grounding him like a leash on a beast, like a hot air balloon tied down with sandbags. It’s odd, but right. Mark lets go of a shaky breath, his fingers bringing back their colours as his grip loosens and Jack takes the knife from his hand, places it against the edge of the plate.

“Jack, I’m so sorry you have to live with him,” Bob starts, his shit-eating grin brighter than any of their futures. “He must have brain washed you; there’s no way his dumb ass could score any sane person.” Bob speaks, waving Mark off, like he can’t and can hear everything at once, high definition, like a microphone with its sensitivity higher than Mark feels his IQ is at this moment, amplifying the slightest sounds, right down to the housefly that buzzes at the door.

“Excuse me,” Jack interrupts Mark’s slight (large) panic, “Mark has a _great_ ass,” and Mark is right back to large panic again, his fingers curling into his palms, nails cutting into the skin, lip tugged between teeth as the taste of copper paints his tongue.

The sound of Jack’s voice, almost more familiar than his own after living with it for so long, brings him back enough to _sound_ here, like he didn’t just abort to Mars, his soul still here while his mind is dancing on red dust.

“My mom is _right there_ ,” Mark begs them all to stop, voice squeaking with fear and concern. He wishes they’d all drop it, that he could go back in time forty-five seconds, that Bob didn’t look immediately to Mark’s face after his mom dropped a nuke on her own home, broke Mark’s heart and stomped on his lifeless corpse.

“You got it from your father,” his mom speaks, voice even and truthful, like she’s explaining what the sun is, her lips instantly returning to envelope the lip on her glass of wine.

He wishes he could go back to when the earth was formed, when planets collided and killed the dinosaurs, wishes he could stand at the collision point. It would be more peaceful death than the one he’s experiencing now, his friends humiliating him, his mother being snarkier than she has since he was born, her English more flawless in this moment than Mark has any hope of his own ever being after this conversation.

“Why didn’t you tell us the other day?” Bob asks once his laughter has stopped echoing and Mark and Jack have taken seats in shame, Mark’s hands wrung out like a wet tea towel after dishes, like he’s poured water too hot over his fingers, red and as upset and worried as he feels. “I could tell something was up. When Jack sits by you, he leans in like you’ve got a gravitational pull,” Bob explains, his hands illustrating words like they’re drawing sketches for the transcript as he speaks, “the way you look at him; like he hung the fuckin’ moon,” his voice, confident and confirming like a speech from a boss, tells Mark. And for a moment, he’s confused as to why they didn’t tell them.

“And the way you look at his ass,” Wade finishes.

Both Mark and Jack must look like singing fish, with their mouths strung open and eyes wide as though their eyelids never existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> went to the doc recently. told me i either have a pseudo tumor or an actual brain tumor?? took me off all of my medication immediately just in case. aka i'm not feelin 10/10 atm. anyway sorry this is late. and short. con season normally makes me sad anyway, but this is. somethin.


	12. Strawberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mark!” her words cry out, “it’s such a beautiful day; come for a picnic with us,” Di begs him, her voice far too cheery for how early in the morning it must be.

 It’s a gorgeous day the following morning, which is why Mark wakes to the sound of his phone ringing, the tune ringing through his ears like an air horn in the silence of his room, Jack still asleep beside him, fingers curled into a ball on Mark’s bare stomach, resting just above his navel.

 

He slaps the bedside table blindly for the source of the screeching, the repeating tone sounding more like a beacon of death than an alert that someone wanted a conversation.

“Hello?” he asks, voice rough with sleep, smooth as gravel, more empty breath than syllables.

“Mark!” her words cry out, “it’s such a beautiful day; come for a picnic with us,” Di begs him, her voice far too cheery for how early in the morning it must b-

 

Oh. Ah. It’s 10:45 am, Mark sees when he removes the phone from his ear, screen coming to light, bright in the darkness. He holds the phone to his ear once more, quietly asks for the time Di wants to meet, and the place she plans on seeing them at. She gives them the timeframe of 12:30 (ish, she says, but for any mother ‘ish’ means ‘on the dot’) and a park Mark remembers being far too green in the summer and far too busy in the fall of every year.

 

That gives them approximately one hour to get ready with the twenty-minute drive Mark knows it will be.

 

He sets a timer for 40 minutes from now, throws his phone against the plush feathers of the quilt, and curls towards the warm body beside him, a bicep supporting Jack’s head, arm wrapped around his blindly warm waist. The soft sigh of discontent at the movement turns into one of placidness as Mark settles, his arms holding the warmest teddy-bear of all goddamn time.

 

They get there fifteen minutes late, but to be fair, stopped for coffee on the way. Their sunglasses sit along the bridge of their noses, lenses blocking out most of the sunlight and adoring grins from both little and loved ones. As much as they are loved, they soon become overwhelming.

 

Di waves to them from the large plaid blanket laid over the grass, crinkling like wrapping paper under their feet, sunshine warm in the peak of the day. Mark raises a finger from his coffee cup, finger greeting her as whole-heartedly as his entire hand would be, if he had one free. Unfortunately, Jack has his right intertwined with Mark’s left, loosely connected like the obligation it… sort of is.

The blanket is set in the sunlight, kisses of ultraviolet pressing to Di’s cheeks, rosy red. Mark toes his shoes off by the frills at the edge when they approach, and drops to the ground, legs crossed, without a drop of hesitance, tugging Jack with him as he goes.

 

He sits too close to Mark, his thigh pressed against Mark’s own, fingers that were intertwined now wrapped around his waist, head resting on Mark’s shoulder. Mark pretends to not notice, sipping his coffee as it cools, laughing with Di and his slew of step siblings whose names muddle together, Jack slowly moving to lay in the sun, taking in the warmth and mildness of it compared to California.

“This is so _nice_ ,” he comments, arms stretched above his head, landing in Mark’s lap. Jack pauses like he’s in a movie, Mark watches the though pass through his eyes, and the shuffle of his body closer most definitely does not go unnoticed by Mark. Jack rests his head on Mark’s thigh, angle of his thigh angling Jack towards him (and his crotch).

“H-hey,” Mark murmurs, stutters for longer than the word lasts. Jack smiles and it’s the most genuinely content Mark has seen him all this time, sprawled out in the sun, lying in Mark’s lap, surrounded by Mark’s endless family.

 

“Thomas is seeing friends today and couldn’t come,” Di tells Mark, interrupting his staring competition with his knee and the swirl of Jack’s hair that lands on it. “A pity; I wanted another family picture, but shit happens,” she finishes, and Mark feels himself nod in agreeance, despite knowing it is better Thomas weren’t there, else he risk one million and two more questions about his (fake) relationship.

“I barely got to talk to you both last night,” Di confesses, “I was so busy trying to keep on top of everything and everyone that all I got was that picture of you both when you walked in the door.”

“Did it turn out nice?” Jack asks, holding Mark’s forearm from where it rests on his chest, “Could you send it t’ me?”

“Of course! I’m going to put it with the _three others of Mark_ I have,” Di makes a point to stress how little photographic evidence of Mark existing she holds. Mark coils back in embarrassment; posing for pictures is fun! But photoshoots performed by your mother never turn out well, no matter how photogenic you are.

Once Jack and Di had exchanged phone numbers and photographs, Jack returns to his spot in Mark’s lap, hair landing like a Jackson Pollock painting along Mark’s thigh. Mark, compulsively, threads his fingers through it, combing through the silk strands, watches the contentment on his face as he continues talking with Di, as he naps shallowly in the sunlight.

 

“Can I have a strawberry?” Jack asks Mark some time later. Mark had long since stopped combing his fingers through Jack’s hair and leant back to take in the sunlight as it begun to fall in the sky. Di sits by them, her wide brimmed hat covering her face as she sits by them in silence, watching over her children like the mother hen she truly is.

“Huh?” Mark asks, breaking from his thoughtlessness. “You can reach them,” Mark lifts a hand to point incredulously at the strawberries sitting in their punnet, barely out of arms reach for Jack.

He whines in response, arm by Mark’s knee coming to press against his hip, fingers flaring against the far too thin t-shirt. “But you’re so comfy,” Jack whines, “please?”

 

Mark, to his own disbelief, leans over Jack, not surprisingly semi crushing his under the weight of his chest, and pulls back the punnet of strawberries, bringing a dinner roll along with it, three deep red strawberries remaining in the plastic case, their green leaves squeezing through the circular holes at the bottom of the case. Mark places it on Jack’s stomach, knowing he’ll want the last few.

“Mm, thank you,” Jack murmurs as he picks up a strawberry from the punnet, leaves peeking between his fingers. His hum of pleasure is even as he widens his lips to place the strawberry half in his mouth. Mark tugs the dinner roll into his hands, tears it apart, presses his thumb into the crust. Jack’s cheeks slightly hollow out as he takes the strawberry apart, and when he bites down, the juice from the strawberry, just past its prime, coats his lips and slides down along the width of his cheek.

Mark looks away, begs his breathing to at least _look_ even, begs his cock to _chill the fuck out_.

Mark’s blood is warmed like a snake on a rock in the midday sun, it’s on his face, his arms, and Mark isn’t quite sure if it’s the sunlight or the ache in his chest and the pink flush across his skin.

 

Mark wants to swim in a lake, frozen over from the cold. Maybe it would quell his penis’ input in the situation, maybe it would drown him and get him out of this situation. Jack, his best friend, has his face is less than a foot from his cock, which obviously wants in on this situation, and Mark himself wants no part of it.

 

It takes him a few moments, looking directly into the sun, thinking about how nice it would be to swim in that lake with nothing but a snorkel, and comes back to the sound of Jack’s laughter, the shake of his body along Mark’s thigh.

“Di! Not in front of the children,” Jack begs, arm thrown across his stomach like Mark just missed the joke of the year – and maybe he did.

“I was young and in love once or twice, Jack,” she confesses, like an unknown secret that she’s told to her elderly children at least once.

Jack’s laughter rings through Mark’s ears, down his spine, settles in his chest like a bad cough, except it warms him even further, and Mark kind of wishes he wore shorts in the middle of winter with how warm it is today.

The puddle of green hair in his lap turns to look him in the eyes, grin toothy like Di’s comment was truly the best thing he’d heard since landing, if the size is anything to go by. Jack takes in Mark’s slightly startled expression and controls his laughter, glances at all the tell-tale signs of discomfort in his body language.

“You okay, Hon?” Jack asks, true concern filling his voice, not just Actor-Jack’s voice, “you look a little spaced out.” The concern on Jack’s face matches the concern in Mark’s heart. He lets out a small breath that shimmies like a regretful dance and shakes his head to remove the worry from Jack’s face, as well as the thoughts from his head.

“Nothing,” Mark promises. “Sorry,” more quietly afterwards. His fingers dig into the bread in his hands, push the risen dough down in on itself. He hopes it will push down his heart from its position in his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good news: no brain tumor _or_ pseudo tumor. still dont know whats up but it isnt a tumor at least !!


	13. Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snakes can't _fly_.

Thomas texts him late in the night, and all the message says is, “Bro. Zoo tomorrow? I’ll pick you both up at 9.”

 

It’s early – too early. The sun feels like it’s parallel to Mark’s head, the light stabbing into his eyes, trying to be gentle in its affection and failing horribly. Jack is nearby, not impossibly close, but his feet are shoved between Mark’s calves, even if he faces away from Mark, his quiet snoring like a very distant train.

The clock says 8:58am when he picks up his phone, eyes squinting against the brightness, and very quickly open once his mind processes the digits.

“God damn it,” he spits under his breath. Mark kicks his legs a little, throws an arm at Jack. “C’mon, up you get,” Mark groans when Jack groans and curls in a little tighter, “Thomas will be here any minute.”

 

Just because they’re late doesn’t mean Mark won’t shower. He turns the water on, and pivots to the sink to pick up his toothbrush and multitask. His hand knocks against Jack’s own, and they both jump a little; Jack with the haze of sleep still over his head, Mark with the unexpected body in the bathroom with him.

They brush their teeth in near silence, water warming and billowing steam from behind the glass, the only sound that of water against tiles and bristles bumping together.

After they’ve rinsed their mouths, Jack masters human conversation, “Couldda got in, dumb ass,” he mutters, “not like I was gonna get in there with you.”

“Would’ve made us infinitely later if you did,” Mark comments without thinking. He pauses for a second, his hand barely three inches away from his toothbrush resting against the bench where he had placed it.

Jack laughs, “Might’ve made it worth getting up when it’s so cold; couldda warmed up.”

Mark breathes shallowly for a little while after that. He blames it on the rushed timeframe, blames the quickness of his heartbeat on the stress of throwing himself around trying to dress as fast as possible, tries not to think about the last four sentences that happened.

 

He isn’t usually the religious type, but when Thomas shows up twenty minutes later than planned, he brings hot coffee. Mark just might be convinced Thomas _is_ God after that. Mark and Jack sit quietly in the back seat together, coffee in their hands by their respective windows, hands intertwined along the centre seat, while Thomas sits alone in the front – “I’m not a chauffeur,” “Well, next time bring your girlfriend.”

 

They make their way steadily through the zoo, their steps unplanned but drawn to each new exhibit, animal more extreme display of nature than the last. Mark is drawn to the bird aviary, an enclosed, yet open space, a rainbow of feathers from every angle swooping and soaring further than the last. His eyes widen, his mouth following suit, the body by his side, a mess of green, looking hesitant.

 

“Mark, do we really have t’ go through here?” Jack asks, voice wavering just enough for Mark to notice.

“It’s the only way to get to everything on the other side, unless you want to walk all the way back to go around,” Thomas explains from behind the two, their shoulders knocking as they walk from their close proximity. Jack grimaces back to Thomas before looking to the ground by his feet, flips the hood of his jacket over his hair, keeping his ears away from prying beaks, and shoves his fists into the large pocket by his stomach.

“You’re lucky I’m lazy,” Jack promises him, “I fuckin’ hate murders of birds.”

Mark chuckles, his chest shaking with it, his face showing confusion.

“I’m fairly sure only a group of _crows_ is called a murder,” Mark comments, stepping eagerly towards the huge enclosure ahead. Still cheery and excited to see the masses of infinitely coloured feathers, grins at Jack’s nervous form. He throws an arm around Jack’s hunched figure, and chops at the air in front of their faces, closer than before.

“I’ll protect you from the stray feathers,” Mark tells Jack, and draws a cross against his heart when he does so.  

Jack huffs out a small bout of laughter, blows the stray lock of hair away from his eyes. He soon matches Mark’s posture, wraps the corresponding arm around Mark’s waist, hand resting on his hip.

 

They step through a small door, leading into a small room. Instructions on the doors say to wait until both doors are shut to open the next, and they do. The trio stands in the small room, lighting far less than in the enclosure before them.

Jack pinches Mark’s ass, fingers dug beneath denim but above the soft, warn in cotton of his underwear.

Could’ve gotten away with it to, if it weren’t for Mark’s meddling squeak and hand that swats at the offender.

 

“As cute as you look together, I could’ve gone ahead if you wanted a quick lay, guys,” Thomas tells Mark, smirk strong against his usually soft features as his fingers grasp the handle, tugging the door open into the bird filled building.

 

The moment they step into the area, they separate and resort to holding hands; much more space efficient along the pathway laid out for patrons. Jack’s body is stiff, while Mark’s is relaxed and unconcerned.

As Mark takes a second to check on Jack, a scarlet macaw swoops low past their faces, the bat of its feathers in the air forcing a wave of wind to press against their cheeks.

 

Jack looks like he’s going to throw up, and the grip on Mark’s hand is going to take his fingers off like he’s docking a sheep.

Mark is okay with it, as long as Jack is okay.

 

He tugs Jack towards the exit on the other side of the building, the birds not dashing by their faces like the one before, but Jack still wary of his surroundings. Once the reach the small room at the end of the walkway, Jack leans against the wall, out of the way of other park goers.

“I told you I fucking hate birds,” Jack laughs stiffly, like he’s trying to forget the fact that a bird stunned him as much as it did. Mark laughs with him, dissipating the awkward stammer in Jack’s voice, the force in his breath. He wraps his arms around Jack’s shoulders and pulls him in for a hug, focuses on breathing strongly and evenly, a silent plea for Jack to join him. They stay like that for a moment in the corner of the room, Thomas not far, waiting for them to finish their moment, though he soon seems to decide they’ve taken too much time, because Mark hears violent faux vomiting sounds coming from his general direction.

 

He gives Thomas a dead arm.

 

The rest of their excursion is less intense. They make their way through the exhibits that home animals they see on the side of the road, in every text book for biology, and stop only for the notably large or cute ones.

Especially once they make their way into the dim light of the nocturnal animals’ den, snakes, mice, and spiders hiding among their tree stumps, leaves, and planned hiding spots.

Jack tugs on Mark’s hand, pulls him to the section full of snakes, bodies hidden among green leaves, the rotting floor of faux forest floors, sand that should naturally be a violent red.

He’s fucking _glowing._ Jack’s smile is as wide as his skull, his teeth glowing like the reflective pattern on stop signs. He leans close to the glass, his nose close to being pushed back by the barrier between something that could kill him in one bite.

He’s gorgeous.

Mark steps closer, hands free now that Jack is pointing with one pointing to the curl of slick scales beneath green leaves, the other pressed flat against the glass like he wants to hold hands with each snake in the room.

“So,” Mark speaks quietly in the echoing room, darkness bringing the impression they’re near alone, “you’re afraid of birds, but not snakes?”

“Snakes can’t _fly_ ,” is all Jack says, like it’s a clear choice between which is more terrifying.

He realises in this moment.

 

When the sun is low in the sky, clouds blushing like the moon has just told them how beautiful they look, the three of them leave the zoo with sore feet and tired minds. Thomas drives as a chauffeur once more, Mark and Jack sit quietly in the back, bodies tired from constant walking. They make it half way home, roughly a half hour, before Jack leans across the small distance in the car, rests his head on Mark’s shoulder. He tries not to jump at the touch, and thinks he succeeds.

 

It was probably inevitable that Jack falls asleep soon after, his hair falling away from its natural placement, knocking Mark’s chin and neck in a flurry of tickles and itches.

“You really love that kid,” Thomas speaks quietly, voice somewhere between resignation and adoration.

“Yeah,” Mark replies as his fingers pet at Jack’s hair, hand beneath the shoulder Jack is using holding Jack’s own, “I do.”

It’s not Fake-Relationship-Mark talking when he admits it to Thomas, or to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (❦ ᴗ ❦ ✿)


	14. Cold Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s quiet. With Jack involved, it would usually imply the impending doom of a final, or assessment due in mere hours, maybe the day after a bad night out, but none apply here.

It’s dark when they arrive back at Mark’s childhood home, moon high in the sky, stars glittering like fairy lights on a porch in the summer. His shoulder aches, a dull numb from the constant weight of Jack’s head on the space there, and a deep seated fatigue rests in his bones.

He pets at Jack’s hair, voice quiet but clear when he tells them they’re home, he’s got to wake up, Mark is buff but not buff enough to carry him to their bed.

“I’d rather be much more conscious when you carry me t’ bed, Mark,” even in his sedated state, Jack is sharp. Mark flushes pink, and he’s glad for the darkness that hides how much Relationship-Jack gets to him. He continues trying to stir Jack from his haze, softly shaking his shoulder under Jack’s head, forcing him to move his head at least. Jack sits up and drags his hands over his face, groaning at Mark in annoyance in a way that tells Mark he isn’t as annoyed as he’s making out.

“You’re an ass,” Jack complains as he waits for his body to awaken an inkling more before trusting himself to stand. He rests his hands on his thighs, looks towards Mark, eyes glazed over with the fog of sleep.

“But I’m your ass,” Mark retorts, his grin toothy. Jack makes an exaggerated grunt of pleasure, laughter bubbling through.

“And what a good ass it is,” he murmurs, voice even and confident.

Jack opens his door and leaves Mark to ponder the thought alone in the darkness of night.

 

They conduct their late night ritual as per usual. They take a shower one by one, wash the dirt and dust of the day from their skin, drink a glass of water, brush their teeth side by side, and retreat to bed. The only difference between their routine at home and here is that they’re falling into the same bed.

And Mark is in love with Jack, of course.

 

Soon, the only source of light filling the room is the faded slits in the blinds, moonlight as violent as a whisper against Jack’s skin; his arms poke through his old band shirt and are coated by the light that’s painted into the room, curves to his shape and the textures of his skin. They’re not sleeping, but not _not_ sleeping. The room is quiet, calm, and Mark’s eyes droop, head tipped to face Jack’s form.

 

“Thomas knows,” he whispers. It’s all Jack says before tugging up the blankets. He looks uncomfortable, yet relaxed. Mark, shocked, shuffles up to lean on an elbow and face Jack more directly, his chest bare, waist creasing against squashed skin.

“What?” he asks, incredulous, “how do you know?” And it isn’t in sarcasm, isn’t a lie. They’ve been doing _great_. Mark has even been convinced at some points.

"It's the way he was looking at us today,” he says, quiet in the darkness, but even in its words, and his voice is less confident than it was meeting Di’s entire side of the family. Mark frowns, feels the pucker of his bottom lip, the pull of muscles in his chin and cheeks.

“I don’t think so,” Mark denies, “you’re a really good actor.”

Jack puffs out a breath of laughter, and Mark sees his face, sad, like a kicked puppy. He breaths in once more, watches the fall of his chest beneath the blankets.

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice quieter than it should be for a personality so large. Jack looks down the length of his own body, a laugh so quiet and small it must be of self-deprecation, and looks over to Mark. “G’night, Mark.”

Startled by the change, Mark speaks quietly a little too long after, “Goodnight, Jack.”

Mark stares at the ceiling, his mind running a marathon, after that. He worries and stresses and concerns over what Jack had said for so long that he runs himself into a brick wall made of exhaustion, his eyes drooping without permission as the moonlight caresses his stomach.

 

When Mark awakens the next morning, sunlight creeping through the cracks in the blinds, pressing impolite punches against his eyelids, he is alone. The bed is cool under his touch when he stretches an arm out to find Jack, and the sheets are tugged back up, bed half made.

It’s colder than it should be; waking alone.

 

He goes through his routine; drags himself to the bathroom to shower and make himself presentable, puts on clothing that doesn’t have little pink moustaches on it, cleans up his facial hair. Mark calms himself, if only a little.

When he makes his way into the kitchen, he can see the mop of green hair sitting in the living room, long legs like icicles spread over the arm of the chair. Jack takes up less space than he feasibly should in that position, as though he’s a mouse in a room of capybaras.

“Hey,” Mark tests, voice quiet, but like tree bark; textured, but not necessarily rough. Jack hums in what could be interpreted as a sigh in response, shakes a foot that hangs from the armrest. Mark lets it pass, makes his first cup of coffee in a silence that isn’t uncomfortable, just uncommon, and joins Jack in the living room.

 

It’s quiet. With Jack involved, it would usually imply the impending doom of a final, or assessment due in mere hours, maybe the day after a bad night out, but none apply here.

Coffee cup nursed in the palm of his hands, clasped around the black ceramic of the mug, Mark looks over to Jack, steam rising from liquid as black as night rising between them like a curtain.

“What’s up?” Mark asks, casual enough to be a greeting if Jack wants, but direct enough to be an opener if he needs a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen. Jack only grunts in reply, not even looking up from the phone between his fingers. Mark goes to rest his mug on the table between them, and sees Jack’s mug resting against the wood already, still full to the brim with the caffeine that fuels Jack’s personality.

Well, something is definitely wrong then.

“What’s wrong, Jack?” Mark hesitantly asks, voice quiet, unlike Jack’s usual personality. Jack makes a noise of confirmation that Mark was heard, eyes closed, head tipped back. His legs are hanging from one side of the armchair, his elbows holding his torso up from the other side. Despite the confirming noise that Jack had heard Mark’s open ended greeting, he does not continue his answer, and so Mark leaves it alone. They vacantly watch the television in silence, the only sounds to be heard are the static noise of recorded voices, the tippy-tap of fingers and nails against phones, and the pitter-patter of paw pads against wooden floors.

 

Not much changes during the rest of the day. It’s familiar in a way that makes Mark anxious; like the week leading up to finals, like everyone is trying to absorb too much information, live off instant coffee because they’re sleep deprived, barely eat more than a pathetic looking bowl of cereal each day because eating is time they could’ve spent studying, spent revising, spent practicing. Like too much information is being crammed into one mind, thoughts racing so fast but not enough time to process what they mean.

But there is no exam, is no revision of complex topics, no reason for lack of sleep and survival based on instant coffee and knock-off brand cereal. Winter break is for calm, relaxation, destressing, remembering why you fight to survive through exam time, remember why you’re grateful for being able to attend a higher education provider in the first place.

 

At some point, Jack gets up from his seat, soon taken over by Lucy, walks out the back door to the patio. Mark doesn’t have the heart to tell her that human chairs are not her own, that she has a bed all of her own. He’s too busy trying to think of why Jack is so out of character.

 

He asks Bob. Consulting and comparing data is important when making important decisions, if college has taught him _anything_.

**jack is rly sad today. idk what to do. help.**

It’s near immediate, barely gives Mark a chance to lock his phone before it vibrates with an incoming reply.

**have you… yknow… asked why?**

He feels like Bob needs to be here to fully understand, but will settle for elaborating via text, blue bubble conveying emotions in a way he wishes were enough.

**i think he would cry if i did. he’s been silent all day and looks like a kicked puppy.**

Mark feels like he’s incorrect in his simile. A more adequate representation would be a puppy who’s overwhelmed by so many other dogs the first time they visit a dog park; scared and confused, worried that they've done something wrong.

**maybe that’s what he needs.**

Mark knows that the near certainty of failed exams means Jack needs space, needs to process the information of both exams and failure in silence, be left with his thoughts. The way he acts here is so similar that Mark hesitates to open his mouth again.

 

He brews Jack a new coffee; black, one sugar, too hot for anyone but him to consume. He then steels himself, hands on either side of the mug, steam rising and caressing his face like a grounding hug. He can do this. Jack is just having a rough day. Sometimes you need a good cry to get past a shitty mood, need to know someone is at least there to hear your racing thoughts.

Mark picks up the mug, cradles it in both hands, lets the burn of the hot ceramic focus him as he walks out to Jack.

 

By the time Mark has made Jack another cup of liquid energy, Lucy had made her way out onto the patio with Jack, her head resting on his knee, Maggie half way to a land of dreams, curled up on Jack’s lap.

Dog therapy does work, even if it takes a little to kick in, Mark thinks.

Jack absently pets Maggie, his hand running from her head between her ears, down her spine, lifting off at her rump, and continuing the circle. Lucy waits for her turn patiently, puppy eyes pretending to not look at Jack’s face.

 

“Hey,” Mark starts, voice quiet as to not startle Jack or the two fluffs, “I brought you coffee; thought you needed some.” Mark passes the mug towards Jack, arms outstretched with the peace offering, a token of conversation starter. Jack looks up, his face moving from a deep seated sadness to a soft smile, painted with melancholy. He reaches out with the hand that isn’t woven into Maggie’s hair and takes the mug from Mark’s hands.

“Thanks,” Jack murmurs, voice closer to a whisper than Mark is used to hearing come from him. “I’m a little out of it today,” he admits, a lopsided smirk of self-deprecation pulling at his face as he brings the mug to his lips.

“I noticed,” Mark admits, “It’s hard to not notice something is wrong when _the_ Sean Mcloughlin is so quiet.” Mark huffs a forced laugh from high up in his chest, lowers himself to the surrounding bench along the patio guardrail, rests his hands in his lap as Jack takes in the aroma of coffee, smell of early mornings, preparing for the day, an energy drink that no one can fault you for being addicted to when the rest of the world follows.

“Just… didn’t feel too good when I woke up,” Jack admits, cradling the dark mug between his fingers, eyes attached to the steam that rises, unmelting of Mark’s eyes.

“Must’ve woken up damn early; I was still out like a light,” Mark admits, worry lacing his words like liquor lacing thoughts.

“It was; the sun wasn’t even up,” Jack agrees with Mark, his fingers nervously tapping nails against echoing ceramic. “It was a little after 2, I think,” and Mark wishes his chest didn’t ache with the confession, “I’m not one hundred percent sure; I was thinking for a long time.”

“Why? What’s up?” Mark asks, concern like ketchup on a child’s dinner plate, “Is there something I can do?”

Jack shakes his head, narrowly missing spilling his piping hot coffee on Maggie’s silken coat, or Lucy’s snow-like fur.

“It’s…” Jack beings, hand lulling Maggie to sleep stopping its motion, as though his thought process and hand movements are directly correlated. “You know when you become invested in a character in a game, or book, or movie, and you sort of… take on their traits or mannerisms?”

Of course Mark does. It happened when he watched _The Notebook_ , for fuck’s sake.

“God, yeah,” Mark breaths, like a sigh of resignation. His laughter has assimilated to that of so many others’ in the past that he cannot remember what his own laugh sounds like. “So you’re invested in some angsty character?” Mark asks, and he leaves the question open enough that Jack could take it as a joke if he wishes.

“I guess you could say that,” Jack laughs, chest puffing with the vibration of it, Maggie slipping down his thighs a single inch before being held close by a spare arm from Jack’s torso once more. “Boyfriend-Jack is rubbing off on me,” he admits, eyes glued to Lucy’s tail that waves back and forth like the hand of a rich southern woman in the presence of a smooth gentleman. Mark is confused for a moment, his head tilting with it.

“Huh,” Mark replies after a particularly pregnant silence, “so you’re confusing Boyfriend-Jack’s feelings with actual Jack’s?” Jack nods in response, green locks of hair falling in his eye before they settle against his brow.

“I just need a day to recuperate is all,” Jack promises, tips his head back and leans against the guardrail. “It’s hard being two people; I need to separate us a little, y’know?”

Mark nods in true agreeance, resists the burning urge to ruffle Jack’s hair and move the look from his eye, and leaves Jack alone to dwell on his own thoughts, leaves Jack alone to think about it himself, think about how he might be confusing Boyfriend-Mark’s feelings with real Mark’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont have much written past this fiasco, so ?? i'm not feelin too crash hot atm so i've not been writing much so updates might slow down for a bit,, i just needed to vent thru these oblivious idiots. which is good bc i've had this chapter planned since like chapter 4. anyway. tell ur dogs to send kudos and kisses to me.


	15. Hercules' Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think it’s home sickness,” a home sickness that can’t be solved by returning to the home you grew up in, by seeing family or friends. It’s a deep-seated discomfort when you’re torn from your element. It’s wanting to go ‘home’ but not knowing what that home is. Mark feels the same way; thinks it might be the blue light of their television painting their torsos, controller in his hands while Jack’s hold a textbook, low light of a warm lightbulb from a lamp hugging their backs and the right side of their faces, a study of color.

Mark sends a text to Thomas at half eight the next morning, bed cold with just one body in it, Jack having slept on the couch by choice the night before. Mark had tried to convince him to sleep in the room, at least, let Mark take the trundle, and he had failed. He asks Thomas to meet for breakfast at the tiny diner-esque café Di used to take them to when they were younger.

 

Thomas walks up to the booth, and Mark is sitting alone, elbows on the table, hands cradling a steaming cappuccino, chocolate powder a faint memory on his tongue, no other cups in sight.

“No Jack?” is the first thing he says, no greeting to alert Mark of his presence. Thomas scoots into the seat opposite Mark, already contemplating his breakfast options in the back of his mind.

“No Jack,” Mark repeats, less of a question, more of a statement. “He wasn’t feeling too great.” Thomas snorts at the reasoning, a small smirk pulling against the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t feel too great either,” Thomas admits, nonchalantly opening the menu that sits at the edge of the table, scanning his options. “Being in a relationship with you would be difficult,” and Mark can’t fault him for that; it isn’t a lie, “and if mom ever finds out you’re faking it, she’d kill you both.”

 

_What._

 

“I-It’s not,” Mark stutters after a moment of gawking, “It’s not.” Thomas’s huff of disbelief rings in Mark’s ears, sounds distant through his anxiety.

“Difficult to being in a relationship with you? With a face like yours, I struggle to believe that,” and _damn it_ this is not the time for sass, Thomas.

“I mean the relationship – it’s not fake,” it’s more difficult for Mark to sputter the words out than it should be; hasn’t their “relationship” existed for over a week now? Thomas’ snorting forces Mark to look up from his coffee, look up to disbelieving eyes and cocked brow. "I mean…” Mark swallows against the boulder in his throat, sips a little of his coffee to force it down, out of his oesophagus it was. “It _was_ fake; it was all pretend. I wanted mom and Di off of my _Goddamn back_ ,” his fingers grip at the ceramic, threaten to cut into it like a raw steak, “but it's been real for me since Christmas Day,” Mark explains, voice barely a whisper by this point, his eyes back to being tied to the coffee, swirl of foam twisting in the momentum – “I think.”

Thomas sits in silence, waits to see if Mark will continue, if he’ll break down in tears, song, maybe dance. The patient silence allows Mark to collect his thoughts, think about his conversation with Jack the previous day. When he’s content that Mark has nothing else to say, Thomas leans forward, rests his weight on his elbows, hands clasped in front of him, and looks Mark dead in the eye.

“I find that hard to believe,” he begins, eyes in a slight squint at how serious he is. “I've seen how he looks at you. It's been real for him for a hell of a lot longer than that, or he's a phenomenal actor,” Thomas explains, and sits back against the chair once he’s finished his speech, lets it settle into the pores of Mark’s skin, lets it soak through every single Myelin sheath in his body.

"What?" is all Mark can come up with, confusion written like a novel across his face, written in the worry lines across his forehead, at the corner of his eyes, in the sides of his nose, and the edges of his lips. Thomas shrugs, raises a hand like it’s obvious.

"He looks at you like you're an Adonis,” Thomas tells Mark, voice a little raised like he’s explaining something so fundamentally simple, like the difference between one and two, “Or Hercules, minus the murdered wife.” Mark continues to be confused, an expression of disbelief and near hurt carved into his features, only made worse by the comparison Thomas makes.

"Again,” Mark swallows, licks his lips, locks his eyes to Thomas’s own, like looking into a mirror, “what?"

"God, you’re fucking oblivious. He's a love sick puppy for you,” Thomas answers, unblinking in response. Mark sits up a little taller, sucks his teeth for a moment, swallowing the stagnant air and the information Thomas is giving him.

"I got that you're trying to tell me that,” Mark admits, eyebrows trying to touch the ceiling. He holds a hand up in an accusatory manner, “which is bullshit, by the way.” Mark wishes his heart would stop trying to escape from his ribcage, wishes it would settle and continue to let him function, not try to kill him. “He _is_ a great actor, and obviously I am not,” Mark admits, wishes he was a good enough actor that the words wouldn’t taste so sour on his tongue, “But what about Hercules?"

“Hercules. Killed his wife, but was still really hot?” Thomas explains, leaves a small silence for Mark to wrack his brain for the memory of learning Greek mythology. He huffs a sad laughter reminiscent of those forced around unfamiliar family.

“Jack–“ Mark swallows against the lump in his throat, certain it’s just phlegm, but it could be his heart, “Jack said yesterday he’s confusing…” he takes a moment to collect his thoughts, lick his lips, swirl the cooling coffee between his hands, “confusing Relationship-Jack with real Jack’s feelings.” Thomas huffs, rolls his eyes, sits back in the booth, rests his hands on his thighs.

“I call bullshit,” is all Thomas has to say on the matter, his only opinion, “he’s not confusing Relationship-Jack and real Jack’s feelings because they’re the same fucking feelings.”

Mark’s head is spinning. He has whiplash from the last two days, wishes he could go back to before they left for Cincinnati, pizza and bottles of knock-off brand soda and co-op video games, no fake relationship, no questioning himself or his feelings or anyone else’s.

“Let’s just… ignore Jack’s feelings for a second,” Mark instantly regrets his statement. “I – am I confusing my feelings with for-show Relationship-Mark?” Mark is 5 foot, 10 inches of beef wall, but looks like a four-day old kitten that’s been torn from its mother the way he curls in against himself. Thomas sees this, feels the anxiety seeping from Mark’s veins like he’s about to give a speech in front of president Obama, his graduating high school class, and Beyoncé all at once. His eyes are sad, the brown of his eyes a seized up chocolate, rather than the melted, smooth, 70% cocoa they usually are.

“Jack is your best friend, yes?” Thomas asks, rhetoric evident in his facial expression, eyebrows taught. Mark nods, lip tugged between his teeth, gnawing away at the unpleasant thoughts. “You live together, you eat together, you study together,” Thomas lists off, “for God’s sake, you’d take dumps together if your apartment had two bathrooms.” Mark’s façade breaks then, his face tugging into a smile at the absurdity and truth in the matter. “Let’s theoretically say you go home, things go back to normal, and it’s some alternate reality where Jack gets into a relationship with someone that’s not you,” Thomas looks so serious in the moment, like his minutely larger time on earth has made him infinitely wiser than Mark himself. “Would you be happy for him?”

“Yes; of course,” Mark answers. It isn’t a difficult question; Jack deserves to be happy.

“What about you? Would _you_ be happy?” Thomas further asks. Mark opens his mouth to answer, tongue forming the consonant of his response. Nothing comes out.

Would he? If Jack wasn’t home with him all the time, spent time with someone who makes him laugh as much, if not more than Mark does, didn’t thank Mark with the small smile on his lips when Mark passes him a drink when he’s in the midst of something, if Jack wasn’t willing and ready to go on spontaneous trips to the library for assignment references, to the over-priced, overly-sweet café three blocks down from their home, to the parties with people neither of them know, but are invited to by friends, would he be happy?

“No, I wouldn’t be happy,” Mark hears himself distantly admit, his ears collecting sound like he’s underwater.

“There’s your answer, then,” Thomas tells him. “Talk to Jack,” he quietly recommends, “and _don’t_ let mom know about all of this – she’s got a bet going with her coffee friends.”

 Mark is quiet all through their breakfast, drinks three more cups of overly-priced, bitter coffee in the process, starts to give himself a stomach ulcer.

 

Jack seems more at peace with himself when Mark finally makes his way home. After breakfast with a revelation and assurance in the physical for of his brother, he’d walked around his home town, sat on park benches, watched people quietly, taken time to recuperate in the way only being alone can restore you. Once he does finally make his way back home, Jack is throwing a ball for Lucy in the backyard. He’s sitting in the grass, cross-legged, pegging the ball for her each time she returns it to his lap.

Maggie is asleep on the porch, her head resting against her paws, her side pressed against Mark’s mom’s thigh. In one hand, she holds a steaming mug, most likely containing tea, and in the other, a novel in a language Mark cannot read, leaning flush against the thigh opposite Maggie, neglected but not forgotten.

“Is Jack okay?” his mom asks, eyes following Lucy, body language not implying she’d even heard him approach. Mark locks his eyes on Jack’s figure, watches him tug at the grass he really should offer to cut while they’re here, takes a moment to contemplate an answer.

“I think he’s just been feeling a little off,” Mark decides to provide her. “I think it’s home sickness,” a home sickness that can’t be solved by returning to the home you grew up in, by seeing family or friends. It’s a deep-seated discomfort when you’re torn from your element. It’s wanting to go ‘home’ but not knowing what that home is. Mark feels the same way; thinks it might be the blue light of their television painting their torsos, controller in his hands while Jack’s hold a textbook, low light of a warm lightbulb from a lamp hugging their backs and the right side of their faces, a study of color.

Maybe Jack’s is the same.

“But he _is_ home,” Mark’s mom counters, her voice quiet, lingering with her concern for Jack, a son she did not bare to the world, but one she would fight against the world for. “He should not distance himself – _you_ are his home.”

Mark pretends not to feel the lump in his throat, feel the ache behind the bridge of his nose. His mom is more naïve, and yet wiser than he could ever imagine.

“I’m more guilty of it than he is,” Mark admits after a moment of looking to the low hanging sun, using the brightness as an excuse to close his eyes for a moment.

“Then you are fools in love,” she concludes. Maggie barely flinches when his mom stands, folding her book closed and moving into the house.

“Yeah,” Mark admits to the empty air in front of him, the ache of cold air on the tip of his nose, the ache of loving someone on the tip of his sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a woman who goes to the gym next to my work that I often run into in the bathroom and at the coffee shop a little ways down. She often compliments me and I stumble over my words at her beauty. One day I will feign confidence and confess to her how gorgeous she is, how her smile makes my day, no matter how bad it is. One day I will return her kindness. For now I will smile behind my coffee and try not to trip over my feet as we pass each other.


	16. Hands of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are we, Jack?” he asks, voice sounding more confident than the man is himself. He doesn’t know if the pounding against his chest is emanating from Jack’s or inside his own.

Jack is more or less back to being Jack. The day of recuperation did them both a world of good. Mark is in love with Jack. He’s told that Jack feels the same.

Confusing, considering he slept on the couch the night before.

 

Mark works through his nightly routine – a shower long and hot enough to make his skin warmer than it should be to work the knots from his shoulders, leave his body stained red for several moments, a glass of water, cleaned teeth – which means he misses Jack retreating to bed early. Mark had assumed that despite Jack being in higher spirits today, he was still working through the knots in his mind, and would sleep on the comfortable, yet sleep-inappropriate couch. Which is why Mark, clad in his loose sweatpants and a damp towel ruffling his hair, stops still when he saunters into his old room.

Jack, hair tussled and mouth barely opened, lies asleep in the bed. The blankets are pooled around his hips, his body curled in a looser version of a fetal position, arms holding a pillow tight to his chest, his head resting atop the plush softness, face angled into the fabric.

Mark’s pillow.

He’s breathless from the sigh of adoration at the sight, relief that Jack was back, and defeat at the loss of his pillow. Resting the towel on the door handle, Mark closes the door almost all of the way before making his way to his side of the bed. Once he’s situated himself under the covers himself, he looks to Jack. His pillow is gone, and because he isn’t a savage who sleeps on rocks, and Jack is only using Mark’s pillow for both headrest and snuggle-buddy, Mark takes Jack’s, flattens the surface behind him, and settles in.

He pretends to not admire the sharp lines of Jack’s spine, the jut of his hip, the soft lines of his neck, before he folds the wings of his glasses, rests them on the bedside table, and taps at the bedside lamp and enveloping them in darkness.

 

 

The sunlight on his skin isn’t what wakes Mark, but rather the slight jostling of a body against his chest and on the mattress springs beneath him. The vibration in his throat is felt before he hears the tiny groan come from his mouth, but it stops the body in his arms from moving all the same. Once Mark’s adjusted to the warmth of the sunlight and the body in his arms in contrast to the cool air around them, he dares to open his eyes. Mark’s vision is blurred, as always when he is without his glasses, but the sight isn’t one Mark is opposed to. Jack, startled stiff that he’s woken Mark, looks like he both does and completely does not belong there, his back to Mark, his body pressed close. Mark loosens his arms, allows Jack to escape if he pleases. All Jack does is bring his arm that rests by the mattress, his hand beneath his head, up to Mark’s own. Jack’s fingers grip Mark’s tug in a way that implies both an order and a request for his arm to return to its position.

“Sorry,” Jack whispers in the warm light, “I was getting a dead arm from lying on t’at side.” Mark leans forward, presses his nose into Jack’s mess of unruly hair.

“S’okay,” Mark tells the bird’s nest by his mouth, “as long as you’re comfy.”

“Yeah,” Jack breathes, “I am.”

 

They drift in and out of sleep for a while longer, the only sounds to be heard the birds waking outside, the pitter-patter of dog paws on linoleum, and the occasional click of cracked bones upon finger and toe stretches – and once when Mark stretches his back. It’s comfortable. It’s homey.

Eventually, Jack turns back over in Mark’s arms, holds his limbs in close, his knee pressed and interlocked with Mark’s own. He looks to Mark’s sleep hazed face, locks on to Mark’s unfocused eyes, and smiles fondly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice rough with lack of use during their laze.

“Hey,” Mark mimics, a yawn enveloping all of his senses for a moment before returning to Jack, a mess of seaweed hair and Pacific Ocean blues, who should have been born in a different universe. Jack, in another universe, is a beautiful siren with scales of diamonds and silver, sea snakes for hair forming a frame for the eyes that draw sailors in more than the voice of an angel and devil combined. In this universe; however, Jack is a siren only Mark can hear in the distance, a dream too far away and yet too close for comfort.

 

Their bodily functions rustle them from their positions eventually; Mark withdraws his arms from around Jack and makes way to the bathroom. He attends to his human needs, washes the sleep from his eyes, brushes the taste of stale dreams and stagnant breath from his mouth, nearly falls into Jack on his way back into the room. Mark’s expression matches Jack’s own; dazed startle, but the realization of what happened makes them continue on their way.

 

Mark draws the blinds up, lets the morning sun beat against his skin to counteract the coolness of the air. He lays on the bed once more, lets the feeling of distant star of fire caress his belly, crosshatch of the security screen creating a study of spatial shadows across his stomach. His lashes rest against his cheek when his eyes close, the sunlight acting like melatonin despite the scientific contrast.

 

Soon after, when his ears have adjusted to being his main sense, the soft static of toes and balls of feet trudging through carpet echo through his head. He knows those steps, isn’t shocked when the bed dips and springs squeal under the pressure, isn’t worried by the body next to him presses close, rests a head against his chest. Jack pulls his arm across Mark’s stomach, arm cool in contrast to both the warmth of direct sunlight and the tanned comparison of Mark’s skin to Jack’s own.

 

“What are we doing?” Mark asks, refusing to open his eyes, avoiding Jack’s knowing ones. Rather than looking up to Mark’s face, Jack burrows a little closer, curls in a little more, makes his point evident without words before backing it up with confirmation.

“Cuddling to fend off the cold,” Jack informs him, voice unwavering with nothing but contentment filling the vibrations, response like a purring kitten against Mark’s ears. Mark sighs, rolls his eyes a little. Of course. He steels himself a degree more, clenches his jaw for a silent second.

“I mean in general,” he confirms, the click of concern in his jaw more confident than his words. He looks down to Jack, who looks like a child in trouble for stealing someone else’s dessert.

“Spending time with your family over the break?” Jack has no idea what Mark is getting at; or he has _every_ idea of what Mark is getting at. Mark, huffing a stray curl of hair that angles into his eye, decides he… he needs to take a different route for this.

“What are we, Jack?” he asks, voice sounding more confident than the man is himself. He doesn’t know if the pounding against his chest is emanating from Jack’s or inside his own. It’s quiet for a moment, the lingering sound of their anxious breaths the only noise to break the silence. After a moment, Jack lifts himself onto his elbow, looks Mark in the eye with a curiosity Mark doesn’t want to entertain.

“What do you mean?” he questions Mark’s question, avoiding it like an MMA fighter taking a hit from a drunk and disorderly civilian. Mark swallows against the growing anxiety in his throat, like a tumour on the back of his thyroid, like a golf ball caught in his tonsils.

“We fake a relationship to save me from my pestering family, yet even when they aren’t looking, we still do stuff like this,” Mark explains. “Why?” he questions. Jack looks at him, incredulous.

“Are you so fragile in your masculinity that you’re worried _snuggling_ will ruin it?” Jack retorts, hurt evident in his voice, his eyes narrowing like shutters to his head and heart.

“No, I just,” Mark begins to argue, unsure of where to start. He closes his mouth, opens it like he’s going to make a large statement, closes it once more, and then rubs a hand across his face, “why is this so easy?”

“For me or for you?” Jack clarifies, fidgeting in his spot on the mattress, chin turned up in defence or defiance; Mark isn’t quite sure.

“Both of us!” Mark retorts, urgency and distress from Jack beating around the bush evident in words. Jack’s eyes look from Mark’s eyes, wide as they try to make progress, to his mouth, a thousand truths ready to spill from behind the lips Mark bites at in worry.

“That’s something you need to ask yourself, Mark,” he watches the words form on Jack’s lips, doesn’t take the answer as an answer to his original question. Mark loses a little hope, then.

“C’mon, Jack,” he provides, exhaustion from roundabout questions evident even after such a short time. Jack sees this in Mark’s body language, in the way his words aren’t forcibly articulated to avoid letting his lisp show in any words. Mark watches Jack’s figure incrementally relax with each passing breath that dances in the silence.

“Well, what do you want us to be?” Jack grant him, offers a window Mark didn’t want, but definitely needs. Mark’s face falls at the offering; his mind runs blank. What _does_ he want?

“I don’t know,” he admits soon after Jack offers him the opening. “I want to keep doing this even when we get home,” Mark grants. From the look on Jack’s face, Mark isn’t sure if he should continue or take back what he’s just told. “I want you to take naps in my lap, make pancakes in our pyjamas, go to the zoo, the park, dinner,” his mouth runs like it’s in a marathon and only knows how to sprint, “I don’t want this to end or change.” Jack nods, contemplates Mark’s thought process before trying to provide a valid response.

“I don’t understand how it’s any different to what we’ve normally been doing,” Jack provides as consolation. Things won’t change, he’s saying. But their relationship has to, Mark thinks. He takes a dive into the deep end, feels like an Olympic diving athlete on the top level as he does. He feels himself flail like his sense of gravity is completely off.

“I don’t think the world is meant to be in slow motion and look like the realisation moment of a rom-com every time you look at your best friend,” Mark deadpans, but his heart feels like its beating out of his chest.

“To be fair, you’re not supposed to pretend to be in a relationship with your best friend either,” Jack supplies immediately, almost instinctively. Mark feels like there’s a slight disconnect, like they’re reading the same page, but are on different paragraphs. Something misaligns, but it’s progress and Mark will take what he can get. He sighs, looks at the lines in the joins of his ceiling, wishes he could clear cut his thoughts in the same way.

“I want this even when there isn’t a pretend relationship,” Mark clear cuts. “I’m just… confused about where we are with each other,” he sighs out, dejected and close to hopeless, “lost, I guess.”

 “Don’t be,” Jack tells him, but it feels more like an order, a ‘no ifs or buts’ situation. “Let the pieces fall where they may, let the tides of fate take you to the shore it desires,” Jack murmurs, voice distant like he’s thinking too little and too much at once, “go with the flow. If it feels right, it must be.” Mark feels like he’s a protagonist in a Greek mythology tale, his story written in black and white by the hands of a force bigger than them, with the way Jack offers him a very metaphoric response, and yet provides an answer that’s clearer than every thought in Mark’s head since they touched down here.

“What if fate is wrong?” Mark worries after a quiet moment. Jack shakes his head at Mark’s pondering question, then resituates himself to use Mark’s chest as his pillow once more.

“It’s never wrong,” Jack promises, and it’s like a small child listening to their parents; Mark trusts Jack’s statement like his word is law, trusts him with his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY oh my god


	17. Disney Fairy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate laughs in Mark’s face in the form of a grinning dog.

Eventually they have to rise from the comfort of the duvet and each other’s arms. It’s New Year Eve, and before they leave to head back home tomorrow, before they celebrate with their friends for a send-off of the year, Mark wants to take in the calmness of his home. He wants to share it with Jack, wants to let Jack be a _part_ of his home.

 

They drive into town, radio softly playing in the background, the city a low burning fire of life around them. Jack has his right foot pulled up, knee to his chest, the other resting on the floor. His hair falls in his face as he leans against the window, hums along to the tune that fills the air like the aroma that comes with coffee. Mark has one hand on the wheel, fingers at 6 o’clock, his hand closest to the centre console resting against his thigh. He can feel his driving instructor from when he was young scream in his ear about how slow his reaction time to a potential car crash would be, but he doesn’t hear it, doesn’t acknowledge it, _can’t_ acknowledge it with the comfortable, almost dozing Jack beside him, hair tousled and hoodie slouched against his form. His eyes are closed, yet he hums to the tune that is unfamiliar to Mark.

Mark ignores the itch in his hand that tells him to hold Jack’s.

 

Their first stop takes them to the park across the road from the shopping mall. The sun is high in the sky, families are scattered with their children racing, pigtails bouncing with their leaps, faces covered in remanets of sandwiches devoured, the air is both too cool and too warm, smells of grass seeds and the last surviving leaves taking a dying breath. Despite the chaos, despite the distress that the screams of children force into Mark’s veins, he wants to be here in this park, wants to commit to memory the way Jack is hesitant of the commotion that is children without the leashes of school law, and simultaneously the most outwardly relaxed Mark has seen him. Mark needs this; as busy as Cincinnati is, it’s far quieter than Los Angeles, and the air cleaner. Mark also needs to spend their small amount of time left away from the hustle and bustle tugging at the red string of fate.

They follow the cement path around the park, dodging children who chase after one another, and the mothers that follow said children. The sun is warm on Mark’s body; it bleeds through his skin and wraps around his bones like Jack did with his heart. An unnoticeable change until it’s overwhelming and all encompassing. Mark lets his head fall back as to let his skin absorb as much warmth as possible. His eyes fall shut, but he keeps his footing and continues to keep the snail-pace they’d set, Jack’s elbow bumping his own occasionally. The light is blinding, even with closed eyes, but Mark isn’t against it. If it was a choice between blindness and the deep-seated warmth in his bones and heart, he would learn braille from the moment you’d offered. The combination of anxiety from his relationship with Jack having dissipated and been replaced with contentment, and the warmth that hums against his bones like a loved one’s hug fill Mark with a quiet happiness that is unknown, but not unwelcome.

A jostling laughter fills his ears, and without even flinching, Mark knows it’s Jack’s. The air is filled with ribbons of joy, winding its grip around the vibrations that swim in the space in front of him. Human curiosity tells him to look at the source of such a beautiful sound, and then what’s caused it.

He regrets it near immediately.

The sun, warm against Mark’s face, is infinitely warmer on Jack’s; his cheeks are rosy to sun-exposure, his eyes squinting with his smile, the near invisible pigmentation of ultraviolet kisses sparkle on his skin like fairy dust, and Mark is almost sure that Jack is a Disney fairy. The happiness that seeps from Jack’s aura leaves a mess in its path of glitter, giggles, and daisies. They mark his steps like a bride’s train. His mark on the Earth is not the main objective, but it is a secondary cause of who he is. Jack’s smile, wide and toothy, like a child’s grin, soon deflates into an equally cheery, but quieter, soft tug at the corners of his mouth.

Mark wants to make this memorable. He _needs_ to remember his; the flow of Jack’s hair, the crinkle by his eyes, the way the sides of his nose curl when he laughs, the tuft of his green mop refuses to stay with the rest of the pack, the curve of his back when he looks to the sun to laugh. Mark is overrun with the urge, the need, deep in his heart like it has been there for years, to kiss Jack.

He angles himself more towards the green-haired goddess; and it isn’t a mistake when he calls Jack a goddess – the beauty that he’s forcing into the world without anyone else noticing deserves the fragile touch a god, too powerful, too strong, could not provide.

Mark draws his lips together, licks them in a way that only lets his tongue dart out like he’s poking fun in a professional place for a private joke. He watches Jack absorb the simultaneous calm and commotion around them, lets him slow to match Mark’s snail pace. He looks to Jack’s lips; watches Jack do the same. Okay. He can do this. Mark leans in, not breathing, not daring to move any way other than that which has been outlined by the Gods of Fate, no matter how he tugged at the wool, feels like he’s going to throw up, hopes Jack doesn’t pull away, disgusted, confused. They’re so close, like they’re testing the waters of what will happen.

A child pushes them apart, her arms pressing into their stomachs as she tries to wiggle between.

Illusion broken.

A furry friend, warm like chocolate, fur like silk, follows shortly behind the small footsteps, runs between them, purebred, wide Labrador snout huffing with exertion.

Fate laughs in Mark’s face in the form of a grinning dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so short but I've had such a long past 2 weeks and I'm so tired so I figured I'd post what I had at the moment and deal with the consequences later of not having much else written ;_;


	18. Siren's Space Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It… makes Mark happy. Makes Mark feel brave, like he can conquer the waves of the ocean and make it to wherever Jack is.

They continue on after the debacle with the child and dog duo. The sun is warm, the air is cool, but it’s not uncomfortable. There is a mother nursing a crying child in the distance, a dog chasing a stick that hurtles through the air, the _click-click-click_ of people on bikes surrounding them both. They are surrounded by people, and yet they are alone.

Mark is more himself, and more brave than he’s been all their time here.

They walk side by side, their elbows knocking occasionally, Jack’s hand furthest from Mark’s is buried in the pocket of his hooded jacket, the other resting by his side. Mark mirrors Jack’s body, pretends it isn’t as purposeful as it feels – as significant and weighted as it feels. The sun is warm on Mark’s back, and he wonders if the sweat he feels bead against his neck is from the heat of the ball of flaming gas in the sky, or the ball of exploding adrenaline in his chest.

Mark looks to Jack, just to gauge the situation, feel the vibe of the air around him. Jack is calm, relaxed, smiling in a way he probably doesn’t even realise he’s showing. He’s humming; Mark can hear it. It’s quiet, soft, and enthralling like a distant siren’s song, and he can’t look away. Jack looks happy. Quiet, but happy. It… makes Mark happy. Makes Mark feel brave, like he can conquer the waves of the ocean and make it to wherever Jack is.

So he takes the biggest risk of his life so far. He risks his home, his memories, his apartment with Jack in Los Angeles, his relationship with his best friend, his pride, and his heart.

He catches Jack’s hand in his own, holds it tight, hopes his grip isn’t as tight as his throat. Mark wishes his hands weren’t as calloused they are; wishes he could feel every atom of Jack’s hand in his own.

Jack’s step stutters, the soft humming of a distant flurry of fairies quietens like an audience at the opera. Jack looks to their hands, intertwined, locked together, and his eyes widen. Mark wants to tear his hand away, wants to hide in a cave and never see the light of day again, never hear the siren’s song or see the flush in his cheeks or the relaxed smile that turns into a grin so wide his face my split-

Wait.

Oh, God. Jack is holding Mark’s hand back. Jack’s grinning and looking at their hands and he’s got a blush against his cheeks like his grandmother pinched them too hard in love and affection. Jack turns his head away, and hides his face from Mark’s flabbergasted own.

Mark tries to stop his elation from manifesting in his steps, tries to not stare at Jack as they walk, pretends to ignore, and not commit to memory, the feeling of Jack holding his hand so tight in return.

He succeeds at the first two, for the most part.

 

There is something spectacularly lazy about the downtime they have together here. The sunlight is like a warm blanket, the air is cool enough to make the tips of their nose pink, but not run, their hands are intertwined and Jack doesn’t seem to care that Mark’s palms are sweaty with the residual adrenaline that flows through his veins. He needs a moment to calm himself, stop the grin on his face from breaking his jaw, from cracking his lips.

It probably isn’t as big of a deal as Mark’s head and heart have made it out to be.

But to ease Mark’s erratically beating heart, they sit on a park bench side by side, and Mark pretends it doesn’t stress him out to place his arm behind Jack in the most nonchalant way he can, which happens to look very suspicious to onlookers. The theatrical placement of his knees, one leg spread out, the other bent and leaning towards Jack’s own, one hand in his jacket pocket, and the lone, out of place, stiff arm that rests behind Jack’s shoulders, in comparison to Jack’s small postured body language, its comedic in a way that makes Jack himself smirk.

They look like a teenage couple, a girl on a first date with her high school jock crush.

Jack thinks Mark is the fragile, nervous girl; hands jittering like they can’t make up their minds, constantly pushing the stray locks of hair out of his eyes, looking everywhere but Jack.

Mark feels like he’s shitting industrial sized bricks, holes in the cement filled with his emotions and heart-guts. His hands shake, his knee bounces, and his heart won’t go down from his throat, no matter how much he swallows against the lump.

Jack’s hand lifts up and takes a hold of Mark’s shaking one, his fingers gripping on to Mark’s own. Jack doesn’t blink, continues watching the groups of children sit at their picnics, dogs chase one another, people wearing athletic gear, glistening with sweat as they bound across the park, earphones bouncing with their steps in time with the heavy, aching beats of Mark’s heart, and the crunch of their joggers pressing against the last of fallen leaves on the pavement, almost as loud the thoughts in his head that race faster than people more athletic than he. The fallen tree leaves and recently cut grass fill Mark’s ears with simultaneous alertness and sedation, and he isn’t sure if he’s about to pass out, or watch from afar as his fight or flight responses kick in.

Mark doesn’t pretend to ignore it, lets the shock and happiness show on his face, lets the breath he’s been holding since they got his go from his chest.

This is Jack. And this is Mark. They are themselves, together, without Relationship-Jack or Relationship-Mark interfering. They are choosing to be themselves with one another and are still so close that Mark wonders where his fingers end and Jack’s begins.

He ponders the thought while Jack looks to Mark out the corner of his eye, lets the smirk tug at his cheeks like the red string of fate tugs them together, inevitably closer and closer. They are two projectiles in space, destined to come closer and closer until they collide and become one.

Mark hopes they don’t crash and burn in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm losing momentum w this. heck! all ive done this week is watch anime.. anyway pls rec me ur fave shojo anime to feed me.   
> I went ice skating the other night and all i could think about was mark + jack holdin hands and mark tryin not to fall on his ass. maybe ill write that in. maybe not. anyway, PROGRESS!


	19. Late Night Kisses, Divine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You fell asleep in my car, I drove the whole time_  
>  But that's okay; I'll just avoid the holes so you sleep fine

It isn’t until Mark can feel the warmth of the sun against his cheeks being replaced with the dull ache on the tip of his nose, and the tease of red that rests on Jack’s own, that the two make their way towards home. The sun and the clouds dance together, the light of the early evening bouncing pink and warm orange off the rise and fall of the clouds like food-colouring in water; a soft, slow dance, one that knows its fate but enjoys the time it has left.

Mark hopes his time in Cincinnati isn’t on the same path.

 

On their way home, the air surrounding them becomes too cool and the refreshing air of trees and grass is replaced with the artificial warm of the car heater, hugs made of overly enthusiastic atoms taking hold of their bodies; Mark wishes it didn’t lull him as much as it truly does. He fights the weightlessness of sleep for keeping them both safe; decides that he’d rather sleep in a soft bed of blankets (and Jack) than the upright, crick-in-his-neck seat of his mom’s car through peak hour, New Year’s Eve traffic. Jack seems to disagree. That, or he lost the battle to sleep.

 

His head is pressed against the window, hair creased where the angle pushes it up where it rests against glass. Jack has a certain look specific to him when he sleeps, Mark has come to the conclusion. It isn’t from watching Jack when he sleeps, but from rustling Jack from accidental naps when he’s studying or when he’s fallen asleep on the couch from one too many matches in whatever game he’s decided on. When Jack sleeps, he looks relaxed, but also like he’s mid-sigh of relief after being told good news after bad – tense, but relieved. Often when Jack is awake, his mouth will be taut like he’s thinking about something complex, or like he’s been told conflicting things, but when he sleeps, the tension lifts from his mouth and his lips become fuller than that otherwise seem. Mark wishes he could do the same when conscious.

 

Once Jack has risen from his power nap, his hair rustled and upright from the window’s force, and they’ve reached their destination, Mark retreats to the rough, scratchy fabric of the couch in the living room. With one leg pressed into the seam of the seat and backrest, and one along the edge of the seat, Lucy finds her home in the space between Mark’s thighs, her fur overflowing into the lines of his jeans, denim wash allowing the fur to sit flat in the groves. She rests her head on the space just above his knee, her tail lays on the crease of his thigh and waist, and her eyes close like she’s impersonating Jack’s afternoon; time spent in close proximity to Mark while napping.  
When Jack makes his way into the room, it seems he isn’t as much a fan of the impersonation.

“Lucy, off,” he murmurs, voice soft, but definite. Mark, as well as Lucy, whine in complaint and annoyance, but she budges and makes heavy steps towards the hall, presumably to find an empty bed.

“What was that for?” Mark asks, frown etched into his features. Jack shrugs in response, tugs at the sleeves of his hoodie.

“I wanted in,” is all he says before pulling at the edge of Mark’s jeans to pull his leg from the couch. Once free, Jack takes Lucy’s place, settles into the space in front of Mark’s leg, leans his chest against Mark’s own. Mark makes a silence prayer that Jack can’t feel – or hear – the thumping of his heart against his skin, so close to taking flight from how hard it beats, only millimetres from the fabric of Jack’s hood. Jack makes himself at home against Mark’s body, like a re-enactment of how he made a home in Mark’s heart.

 

It’s early in the evening, just after the sun retreats, when Bob texts Mark. It’s a reminder of their end-of-year send off, to join everyone else and their significant others at his home to celebrate (read: drink in) the new year. Mark, despite having no recollection of the event, assures Bob that they had not forgotten and agrees to make their way over within the next hour. Mark, with one arm wrapped around Jack’s waist, shows him the text to alert him, and Jack nods before burrowing down, resting his head on Mark’s chest, using him as a pillow while he scrolls away on his phone. He knows Jack can hear his heart; partially due to the way it beats harder when he looks the small Irish boy wrapped in his arms, but mostly due to the fact Jack is suspiciously perfectly placed against the space in this chest designed to hold his heart safe.

 

Jack, soon thereafter, moves away from Mark, leaving his front cold and too empty, and advises Mark that they should leave soon. Mark agrees, raises his arms above his head, stretches. It rises his shirt from the overlap of his jeans, sliver of cool skin allowed to see the light of day for a moment. (Jack, allowed to see the sliver of skin, too.)

“Yeah,” Mark agrees, “just let me grab a jacket first.” Jack nods in reply, sticks his fist full of phone into his pocket, and makes his way to the car, still in front of the garage from their trip earlier in the day. Once Mark’s torso is covered in the thick security blanket of cotton and fleece, he trips over Maggie as she scratches at the door, makes sure she cannot escape the confines of the home and fence, and joins Jack outside. From the front door, Mark can see Jack leaning against the passenger door, one hand shoved into the deep pocket at the front of the hooded jumper, the other holding his phone, left thumb tapping away at the screen in speedy succession.

 

Mark wants to kiss Jack. Mark wants to kiss him as he is now; Jack is leaning against the car; his head is low as his eyes are kept to his phone. His foot taps along to a song that goes unheard by Mark, and his hair wafts in the wind so minutely that without the focus Mark suddenly had on Jack he would miss the movement, but Mark’s world is both focused solely on Jack, and not his own at all; Mark’s world _is_ Jack.

 

If Mark were to kiss Jack, he would walk up to him with steps filled with determination, with a spine made of steel, with eyes filled with fire. Mark would stand barely a foot from Jack’s own; the balls of his feet would hold more weight than they should, his feet would sit against the soles of his shoes more than they should, like liquid that fills his shoes that mimic the cocktail of nerves and anticipation that fill his chest. Mark would pray his heart that matches the pace of Jack’s tapping toes didn’t continue to do so when Jack stops moving his foot to an unheard song. Jack’s fingers holding his phone would go slack, thumb would stop tapping at the screen. His chest would follow suit, and the rose-petal stain would bleed through the vessels in his neck, would pain his cheeks a stark red in comparison to the printer paper white of his skin.

If they felt so inclined, merpeople, sirens, gorgons, leviathan, and water nymphs would make homes in the deep oceans that form Jack’s eyes, even with the wideness of his pupils in the dark of night, with the ache of wanting that would fill his eyes to the brim and threaten to spill over. Mark would slowly bring up his hands to Jack’s unmoving chest, press them flat against his pecs, push against the beating in Jack’s chest, holding him there. They would look to each other, a moment stuck in time, Mark’s eyes passing over rosy lips, so soft and malleable, over plump cheeks, swollen with the teasing tug of a smile, over eyes that threaten to drown him in their depths and embrace. Jack’s eyes would track Mark’s, watch the pits of melted dark chocolate take in all that they can, mirror his actions. Mark’s fingers would twitch against Jack’s chest before closing his fists around the fabric and pulling him impossibly close, their lips meeting exploding fireworks of adrenaline and endorphins through their bodies, the fire high in the forefront of their chests and low in their bellies.

 

But they have places to be, and none will be appropriate if kissing Jack turns out to be an awkward placement of Mark’s mouth on Jack’s unsuspecting, unwilling ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> working 10 hrs a day is rly taxing (it's funny bc i work for the tax office)  
> we're so close to 30k words! boy, this is way longer than i thought it would be.  
> big things are soon to happen..........


	20. Pizza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is Tyler too much man for you?”  
> “You’re hard enough to deal with,”   
> “And yet here you are, ringing in the new year atop a roof with only me to keep you company,”   
> “It’s alright I guess,” Jack replies with a half attempt at a shrug, “you’re not Chris Hemsworth, but a girl can dream, can’t she?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Classic Hemsy.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YFnM_vzsw1k)

The quiet hum of the engine runs in sync with the low battle sound of a punk band Mark can’t name – Jack’s choice, clearly. Mark enjoys the soft hum of the engine and the _whoosh_ of passing cars, the tap of his toes against tough pedals. But the physical weight that Jack’s presence places on Mark’s soul is somewhat preferable.

The rhythmic slap of Jack’s toes against carpet force Mark’s heartbeat to match in time. The barely noticeable wave of Jack’s hair distracts Mark’s hands enough that he feels the tips of his fingers twitch. They ache to feel Jack’s skin, feel his jaw line, run through the green strands that dance in time, ache to feel the warmth of chest and heart and hands and cheeks. Ache to be with Jack.

Mark keeps his focus pinned to the task at hand, and his hands pinned to the wheel.

 

Wade offers them (Jack) beer once they arrive. He declines with a small, “Can’t let Mark be alone and sober,” and Mark wishes it didn’t make his heart swell and crush his ribs like it does.  They follow through, hugs distributed through each greeting as though their friends weren’t seen less than a week ago, kisses on cheeks to Mandy and Molly, a firm handshake to Tyler’s… friend? More than friend? It doesn’t help that Mark misses their name.

 

The night drifts; it’s a dream you can’t quite recall. Jack stays by Mark’s side, not entirely comfortable with the event or people he hasn’t known for as long as anyone else. They have idle chatter, reminisce about times long gone, make an entire chapter of the night based on inside jokes entirely, talk about plans for the summer (California: air conditioning, Ohio: swimming in a lake too busy to be justified at any other time). At some point, Mark loses track of the time and his surroundings, is too invested about reminiscing of a girl long gone to another state that Wade had loved for too long and too intensely through middle school. It isn’t until he goes to enquire on Jack’s long-lost loves that he notices the bundle of green hair and skin like double cream has wandered away.

It isn’t difficult to find Jack, not in a home small enough that the night would be unpleasant if everyone weren’t so close. He’s found sitting in the outdoor swing, Mandy by his side, soft flutters back and forth from Jack’s toeing at the concrete beneath them, his other foot tucked beneath a thigh, body facing Mandy. They look… content and distantly adoring. Mark is hesitant to disrupt them, but it seems Mandy notices him before he has a chance to sneak away once more.

“Come to steal your boyfriend back, Mark?” she asks, only poking fun in the smallest way possible, which works out to be almost as much as Mandy is physically possible of.

“Oh, just looking for him is all,” Mark decides on, which sounded less possessive in his head, before his mouth beat his mind to not saying it.

“S’okay, you can have him,” she speaks, voice quiet but definite, “I need to make sure Bob isn’t being a terrible host, so I _can_ be.”

With a quiet chuckle and a smoothing of her dress, she ambles off, the soles of her shoes clacking against the concrete like she’s on a red carpet; she is the star of the show. And yet Mark cannot take his eye off of Jack figure, drifting in the slight teeter of his toes against the ground.  Mark shuffles up, takes a seat by Jack. Even with Mark’s interruption, Jack is a picture of relaxation and comfort, despite their collective _dis_ comfort during their earlier interactions.

 

After a moment of collecting distant thoughts and plans, Mark lets his eyes follow up the line of Jack’s body, from toe to the tips of his green hair. He breathes in, looks up to the roof of Bob and Mandy’s small home, remembers the summer before they started at college, laying on the roof and watching the stars at night.

“Wanna go people watch on the roof with me?”

 

The roof is at an incline designed to combat snow and ice, and yet the thing that the cool, rigid tiles seem to combat is the comfort sitting down is supposed to provide. Mark rests his feet beneath him, the warmth of his breath dancing with cool air, a symphony of ice and fire all at once. Cold tiles bite into the warmth that once kept his rear plush, the skin beneath his flannel and plush jacket threatens to join the tips of his fingers, void of warmth.

Jack sits beside him, so close if it weren’t for the thickness of their coats, their hearts would try to synchronise and the cold air would try to mould them together like a graphic modern art.

 

“This is nice,” Jack comments, even as he wrings his hands together to retain some semblance of warmth; “I’m glad we did this.”

“I’m glad we haven’t slipped off yet,” Mark counters, drunk off the ambiance of those drunk below them, “otherwise we’d land in Tyler’s lap,” and with Tyler’s lap currently occupied by an unfamiliar brunet they met in passing, that might start something.

“Or his date’s, and I don’t think I could handle being in the middle of that,” Jack replies, a small scoff and lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Mark stares at it rather than Tyler.

“Is Tyler too much man for you?” Mark asks, smirk on his lips, eyes on Jack’s.

“You’re hard enough to deal with,” Jack retorts without batting an eyelash. He bumps his elbow against Mark’s side in jest, the contact hot to the touch even though the layers of fabric. Mark hums in agreement with Jack, looks to the stars in faux contemplation.

“And yet here you are, ringing in the new year atop a roof with only me to keep you company,” Mark pokes, grin on his face like the cat who caught the mouse. Mark’s eyes scan their surroundings, takes in the sight of his friends, which he considers more of a family than socially linked like-minds, takes in the sound of distant fireworks, of car horns, of trees rustling in the slight breeze, breathes in the smell of gun powder, beer, perfume and cologne, of trees frozen still and of leaves like corpses. He can taste the remnants of a coke in his mouth, the linger of it hugs to the insides of his cheeks. There is a tile edge cutting into the heel of his palm and the centre of his right cheek in a way that tells him to move, but not when Jack is so close, just a hair’s breadth away.

“It’s alright I guess,” Jack replies with a half attempt at a shrug. He pulls his knees up, brings his arms around them to hold them close, as if the cold is threatening to hold his bones as close. He looks up to Mark, his teeth bared in a grin with a cheekiness specific to Jack’s accent, “You’re not Chris Hemsworth, but a girl can dream, can’t she?”

“I’d like to think I’m the middle-class Chris Hemsworth,” Mark informs Jack, a false sense of ego washing over his posture and face. He runs cold fingers through soft, but near too greasy locks, pouts like he’s posing for a magazine cover. A breath’s worth of laughter escapes through two silent chuckles, the rest a soft sigh, unheard. Jack pushes his body weight against the miniscule distance between them, shoves Mark with his shoulder, near to landing in the crease between his chest and shoulder.

“Keep dreaming, lover boy,” Jack warns, a raised eyebrow like a judging parental figure, the other like a wide eyed child in awe of meeting Chris Hemsworth himself.

From below, Bob’s voice booms like an announcer who wasn’t aware they were back on the air, alerting them to their countdown, “Oh, one minute, guys!”

“Mm,” Mark murmurs, watching the group below huddle around the small bundles of sparklers and fireworks, “got to do something with my life, right?”  
The bustle of flicking lighters, footsteps to tiny fireworks, glass cups against glass tables, verbal exclamation of excitement for the new year sings below them, like a busy coffee shop in the early morning on the last day of school. Mark lets himself take it in, commit the moment to memory, remember the grins on each of his friends’ faces.

 

Mark turns to Jack when he hears the shushing of speaking in order for their countdown to begin. Mark breathes in, cold air sobering, makes him think of cold Californian water in late fall, with a boy made of ocean waves and sea plants, of cold beds crawled into in early mornings after spending the night cramming for an exam, of early morning classes prepared for by cold feet pattering along cold wood floors, coffee prepared in travel mugs.

10

He looks to Jack; an angel from heaven above, with eyes like the shores of Lord Howe Island, like sirens with plans to drown the men they love, like the sky after the rain, with a smile like apple pie, like a small dog who’s found its home, like someone reuniting with a lost love, with body language that always screams joy and happiness and approachability, even when he openly acknowledges he would rather be alone with his stress when needed.

9

Mark hears everyone beneath them divvying up their sparklers, with glitter and gunpowder settling like dust over the ground. The uncertainty and adrenaline that flies from sparklers hits Mark like he’s barely an inch from the lit up stick. It starts in the middle of his chest and bleeds out like a shallow, but incessant wound. Like he’s slowly losing himself in the fight but won’t give up, won’t give in.

8

Jack turns to Mark, and his smile only falters to give away an inclination of being unexpectedly looked towards with such determination that it aches in Mark’s bones; it fills him with a deep-seated need that’s made a home in every atom of his being; Jack has made a pin prick on Mark’s fingertip, and it’s slowly, but steadily – so much so Mark didn’t truly realise it until it was forced in his face – taken over all of Mark’s heart and being.

7

Mark hears a squeal from beneath them; he thinks it might be Mandy, or Tyler’s date, even, he’s not sure. He smells gun powder and hot chocolate and the crispness that comes from barren trees. He feels the edge of each tile press into his backside; four along the pane he sits in, feels the cold ache of winter’s hold on the tip of his nose, feels the grit of the tiles and the bite of the air against his palms. He sees the confusion mixed with anticipation in Jack’s eyes that must be similar to his own.

6

“I want to kiss you so badly,” Mark murmurs, leaning impossibly closer to Jack, their shoulders pressed together. Mark’s eyes fix to Jack’s own, search for any give on what he’s thinking at this frozen moment in time. He flickers left and right, lets himself get lost in the depths of the oceans, but never lets himself be dragged beneath the waterline. The depths offer only a softened gaze and awe-filled smile. Mark begins to feel panic well in his throat.

5

“Please,” Jack whines as the hand furthest from Mark lifts from its spot on his knees to Mark’s jacket. Fingers curl into the thick fabric on Mark’s chest, dig into the flannel beneath, a tease of a claw at the skin buried deep. Jack’s eyes soften like he’s begging, like he’s been waiting his entire life to bring in the new year by kissing his best friend.

And maybe he has.

4

Mark tries not to psych himself out of kissing his best friend. He remembers the feeling of a stomach full of butterflies swimming in gravy and roast potato at dinner with Di’s family, remembers the sunlight on his face and blood in his veins, the stars that reflect from Jack’s eyes in the afternoon and the warm body against his in the mornings. Jack, in Mark’s mental wake, shifts his body so they’re facing more comfortably.  

3

There’s a certain quiet that Mark does not allow to plague his life – the calm before the storm. He never allows this phenomenon to enter his mind, and it causes him to remain collected in all situations that would otherwise cause him to fail. But it is in this moment that his mind’s strength wavers and brings in the calm level of the rivers that do not rise without foreign stress. His mind is empty, and it concerns him.

2

How do you kiss? Is there a mathematical formula for working out who gets to be the top in kissing? Is his breath gross? Is there something in his teeth? How do you hold someone’s hand? Their body? How do you embrace someone? Is it appropriate to put your hand on their knee? Pull it close? Pull it over to your leg? Should he keep his hands back? Thread them in Jack’s hair? Hold his waist? Chin?

1

He dives.

He is a sailor in the sea, a thousand miles from shore, with nothing surrounding him but intermittent islands with small groupings of trees, rocks, a cavern if he’s lucky.

Jack is there. He is the siren on the shore who basks in the sun against the warmth of the rocks. He is the choir lead with hair made of eels that glisten in the light, eyes of the oceans so blue they look like they might be the sky after the sunrise. He is a work of art, made of seashells, plants, scales and skin, like the Gods of Old carved him from stone to make mortals envious and lustful all at once. He is the conductor of the band, he is the soloist showing his heart to the world, showing his flaws and his perfections all at once, knowing it will enthral men. He is the sun against the horizon, a seemingly unreachable constant, but one that moves like clockwork. Mark is a sunflower in the morning light, twisting to follow the warmth as though it is all he’s ever known.  

God, it works. Mark follows like a dog to its owner, like he’s been missing this his whole life.

Something in him thinks he has.

 

He is a drowning man in the depths of the ocean. His lips have too few and too many nerve endings in them at once. Jack’s lips are soft and a steady pressure against his own, a little chapped from the cold air, but it only makes Mark want more; they are human. They are here, not a dream. They are _real_ and it makes Mark’s head spin just like the beer that tips you into the ‘too much’ scale during a big night. Mark feels faint in a way that makes him feel like he can fly and he’s teetering on the edge of a high rise building. The loud cheers of happiness scream out below, rising the hairs on Mark’s arms, and the back of his neck. Jack keeps him quiet, their lips and bodies occupied. He needs more, needs to feel Jack’s heavy breath against his own, feel his hands and cheek and neck and hair. Mark wishes he had eight arms to be able to satiate himself. He controls himself, knows he shouldn’t try to be closer than is socially accepted.

 

Jack breathes out a sigh of bliss and Mark can’t stop himself – his left hand holds Jack’s waist, while his right cups the nape of his neck. Judging by the arch of Jack’s spine, Mark feels it’s safe to infer Jack isn’t upset by the action. In retaliation, Jack brings both hands to Mark’s chest, presses them against the muscle there, against the flimsy shield between Jack’s hands and his heart that is trying to escape. He paws at the fabric there for two smacks of their lips together, tongue teasing against lower lip, before sliding them upwards, cupping Mark’s jaw, holding him impossibly closer.

They come up for air, barely six inches between their noses.

 

“Happy New Year to me,” Jack murmurs, eyes heavy lidded and smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, still glistening. Jack’s hands are cold, even in comparison to the air around them, but Mark moves his right hand to Jack’s left, nuzzles into the touch, hums in agreement. His grin is threatening to let laughter through, tugging against his skin.

“Happy New Year, Sean,” Mark agrees, eyes closed as he leans into the touch, absorbing the touch for as long as he is granted permission. His time is cut short by Jack pulling him close once more, this kiss more chaste, just as electrifying, and too short for Mark’s preference.

“Been waiting since the first time we got pizza together for you to do that,” Jack confesses. Mark’s eyes widen considerably at the statement, confusion and realisation washing over him at once.

“The _first_ time we got pizza?” Mark confirms, fingers curling to move into a hand hold, rather than a constant facial caress.

“First time we got pizza,” Jack repeats, small nods with each syllable, his fingers twisting to intertwine with Mark’s own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaAAAAAHHHHHH ALMOST ONE LITERAL YEAR LATER...... BUT WE'RE NOT DONE YET FOLKS THE TRAIN STILL HAS SEVERAL STOPS BEFORE THE END OF THE LINE. CHOO CHOO.
> 
> Revisit chapter 1 if you're confused on the pizza!


End file.
